Collections

I have more than one. My parents, grandmother, brother, children and neighbors have at least a singular assemblage of mementos.  Why?

The church has them along the wall of the sanctuary. My son's property manager has one which is taking over her desk. What is the attachment, the affinity for, the need to grow a collection?  Animals don't do it but people do.

Our lives defined by collections. What do they reveal? Well, mine would scream personality disorder to anyone entering my private spaces. The display of neatly positioned figurines, mostly dusted, are years in the making; from childhood and from my mother's childhood.

The objects are displayed with great care and effort in the placement of each. They remain grouped together, they have themes. If you observe them closely enough, they give clues to who I was and who I am today.

There is beauty there; on the shelves and table tops.  There is grace and artistry, whimsy and joy.
There are memories attached to some which make them irreplaceable in my heart.  I anguish over cracks and dents.  New damage causes me sadness in the knowledge that they can not be replaced.
I tried to replace one; searching the internet for a duplicate.  Found one, bought it and substituted it
in the original grouping.  It doesn't belong somehow. You wouldn't notice it, but I know better.

I remember where and when most of the figurines came to stay with me. Some were gifts, others part of an inheritance. More recent acquisitions were the fruit of trips to flea markets, garage sales, antique malls and just once, a junk pile I passed.  That special addition caused me to go around the block again and stop, turning on the hazard lights while I stood there intent on closely inspecting the latest treasure.

I have slowed down in my efforts to sustain and grow the collections of decorative objects. The excitement of discovery has left my conscious and subconscious; maybe I am just focused elsewhere.

Trying to reignite my enthusiasm to begin again, I concentrate on the task of acquisition and with good intentions and a full tank of gas, I head out.  More times than not, I come home empty handed; disillusioned and upset that I wasted time. But was it truly wasted time?  Maybe not.

Surrounding myself with history or (my version of history) unchains my soul from day to day mundane
living. The adventure of searching behind and under something; opening a drawer or door to discover what lay hidden, is stimulating.  An adult version of hide and go seek where hiding my eyes and counting to ten are no longer part of the game. I suppose I could yell "ollie, ollie in come free" at the cashier counter!

My white duck collection began with an expensive single duckling belonging to Mom.  I inherited 700 plus elephants as well, but let go of all but a handful when my husband and I realized that there was no hope of traveling with that responsibility during his years of active duty service.  The ones which keep me company now are distinct and so my Mom.

I have two moose, which will suffice.  The figurines of dainty, bisque and porcelain women are
dissimilar but as a group define my affection for years gone by; a gentile world. The paintings are mostly original works of art and there the similarity ends.

 Not all of my collections are of multiples.  I have a collection of one; it is of a carved stone anteater. The grouping may not increase given the unlikelihood of ever finding another.

There are stories behind each cherished piece. I may retell them some day and then I may keep secrets and allow the next collector to remember me in the details of my collections.