Mikey One Time

Objects can have great power, but only that with which we imbue them. A crude wooden golf club you wouldn't give a quarter for at a thrift store suddenly takes on museum-level value when you're told it was JFK's favored putter when he was in prep school, right?

Of the thousands of objects I currently own, there are maybe a dozen I can think of offhand to which I've assigned any meaning (and thus, a story) and I was reminded of a few of them today.

My meaningful objects tend to fall into two categories: those that carry a sentimental weight, and those that I can use to beat myself up with long after their practical lifespan has ended.

For an example of the former, I offer the following:

A worn book, held together by tape.  Growing up and watching my grandmother read and notate its dog-eared pages every night I knew her, I'd always assumed it was an heirloom that had passed through many family hands before it made its way to hers. It was only after her death when ten-year-old me, holding it for the first time in my own hands, turned to the dedication page and realized it had been an Easter gift from one of her grown sons when I was two, and she'd managed to transform it into the Dead Sea Scrolls in less time than I'd been alive.

Looking back, I wish I'd slipped it into her hands before they closed the lid all those years ago, because that's where it belonged. But I didn't, so who's going to give it the sacred value it's due when I'm gone?

Why one should have kids, I suppose.

 

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Garage sale, mid-80's, nice Austin neighborhood.

Contrary to all the  picked-over crap I've seen all morning and at every garage sale ever, this one has some primo stuff. 

I can't believe it--moving quickly, I snatch up armfuls of my-size Brooks Brothers button-downs, ties and chinos at give-away prices. Heading toward the check-out, I notice this nearly-new Braun juicer that's $50 at the store and that I don't really need but that's so damn cute I can't pass up--it's marked ridiculously low at five bucks and I offer the woman at the table two and she says ok without looking up and I kick myself for not offering one.

Heading back to the car with all my treasures, I'm hailed by the next-door lady as I tramp across her lawn.

"Got some good stuff, did you?"

Yeah.

"Whole damn family--such a shame."

Huh?

"You didn't know?"  Gladys Kravitz gleam in her eye.

Know what?

"Jerry, Barbara, the four boys--they were in that plane coming back from a ski trip in Colorado that went down back in February. It was in the paper for a week--you don't remember? The woman doing the sale is Barb's sister."

I don't know if I was Jerry's size, or one of the sons. Doesn't matter--I washed and ironed and wore those clothes until they disintegrated. And  although I long ago switched to an all-metal juicer, that old Braun machine still works and will have a home in my bottom kitchen drawer for as long as I'm alive, and I think of that family every time I pull it open and see it.

*.    *.    *.    *.    *

Staedtler-Mars--ever heard of  that company? I hadn't either until I saw that compass set for the first time.

Late 70's, foolish youth, junior college, working for Exum's, dreaming of being an architect.

Exum's, you ask?  A charming little mom-and-pop art-supply store with a couple locations in the Tyler I grew up in. I'd been hired to work in their picture-framing department at the Troup Highway location part-time after school.

Great gig--easy work, well-paid, behind-the-scenes so no customer contact. The owners were good people who loved me, and I loved them back.

After the store closed I'd often wander around looking at new stock, and one day I spotted  the new Staedtler-Mars display. I was blown away--their stuff was so slick, German, well-designed, made and packaged, light-years ahead of all the stodgy old drafting tools I'd previously used.

This compass, especially--so cool and expensive and well-made and well-fitted into its clever little case. My starving-student ass absolutely loved everything about it.

So much so that I stole one. It was easy--I was trusted, could go anywhere in the store I wanted. No one watched me. I slipped it into my pocket and left with it when my shift was over.

I can honestly say that in my eighteen months there, I worked hard for that company and gave them full value for their money. I can also honestly say that that compass set is the only thing I ever stole from the Exum family.

I can further say that, though I am no longer a draftsman nor have I been for decades, that compass set currently residing in the fourth-drawer down in my utility room cabinet will serve until the day I die and whenever I randomly come across it to remind me of the long-term price anyone with a conscience pays for short-term unearned gratification.

Speaking of which....

 

Although the above may look like a dead bat hanging from a refrigerator, it is in fact a 90's-vintage London Fog umbrella--a finely-made implement that, in its day, would instantly snap from compact repose to widespread attention with the merest push of the button on its polished wooden handle.

These days? Not so much--after three decades of faithful service, it's tired. It doesn't spring to action anymore and two of its ribs have snapped and I know I look ridiculous walking around in the rain with this broken piece of shit and should probably toss it and buy a new one,

but I can't.

Why?

Because it's not mine to toss--this umbrella belongs to a trusting trick named Marvin who lives on Norton and who loaned it to me on a rainy LA night in 1991 with the full expectation that I'd return it when I came back like I promised I would.

Explain it to him, Brenda.