One Man's Junk...

I was recently forced to go through some boxes of stuff in the basement looking, successfully, for my birth certificate. I could see it in my mind's eye. I just couldn't see it's location.

But, finally, there, under a load of junk, in the last possible box, was the manila envelope with my paperwork inside.

Phew! Crisis averted.

But, through the ordeal, I reconnected with some of the most important things of my past long ago forgotten.

That exercise made me take a long look at all of the accumulated crap of my life.

To say that I am a collector dignifies my stuff. I am a collector only in the classical sense of that word. It is very true that I collect things but not in the modern sense, as in Beanie Babies or NFL glasses from the gas station (remember those...?)

I have a diversity of junk that, to the naked eye and to almost no one else, is incredibly important to me...and to me alone.

The "Do Not Disturb" sign from my stateroom when I first went to Europe on the S.S. United States in 1967.

An old copy of Tom Sawyer that my mother would read to me when I was too young to read to myself.

My father's old, one-speed, black bicycle with the rusted chain and flat tires that he would ride to the station on his commute to Manhattan when I was a little boy.

And countless other mementos and artifacts that, if found by a great grandchild 100 years from now, would mean nothing at all.

Pieces of rocks from places I've visited. Menus from once favorite restaurants. Old boarding passes. All sorts of stuff.

One of my favorite possessions is my father's old pocket knife. He used it every weekend when he would putter around the house.

The same house in which I now live. The same house I putter around in now.

The funny little things of my life. All glued together they probably wouldn't be worth $10 but to me they are priceless. They represent my history and remind me of the things I did and the people with whom I did them.

Those various pieces of paper or metal or plastic tell my story with more elegance than I could ever do with words. They describe what is important to me and what never was.

One such item is on my dresser. It is a small wooden sailboat carved and beautifully detailed.

I bought it in the old part of Montreal in 1967. I had driven myself to see a girlfriend, Francoise.

It was my first solo trip. I took my mother's 1964, Dodge Dart. It was tan and only had an AM radio but I was the coolest person on the highway.

I remember spending the night in Plattsburgh, New York on my long journey north.

I was alone in a hotel room so far from everything and everyone. My father had made the reservation and had paid in advance. It was awesome!

I stayed with Franny and her family in the exclusive Westmount area and we toured the city, hung out with her friends and had a great time.

When we were shopping in "La Vielle Ville" I saw the boat. I fell in love with it immediately. It wasn't too expensive so I bought it.

I've had it for almost 50 years now. It's been everywhere with me and now it's perched, safely on my bureau where I look at it almost every day.

It always reminds me of that trip so very long ago. It reminds me of Francoise and the fantastic time I had with her back then. I often wonder whatever happended to her. Good things I hope. She was a nice girl.

But the boat and the piece of the Berlin Wall I got, in Berlin, shortly after The Wall fell and my little boy, Hop-Along Cassidy wrist watch. I have all of that stuff. I've had it for so long now that I can't imagine my life without it.

It's my life story. It's who I am.

It's my junk and I will treasure it forever.