As I grow older, I’m finding myself with a greater appreciation for the things of the past, whether it be old cars, musical instruments, antiques and pictures, etc.…These things have hidden stories, some of which are true, some I like to imagine are waiting to be discovered within their tarnished exteriors. To me the value of owning such treasures is never in what I can fetch for them on eBay, but instead in their ability to tell stories I can place myself within. As I think about some of the things that have brought me enjoyment, I begin to wonder if any of you have your own treasure chests of memories like I do. In my efforts of sharing (as usual), I'll share with you a few things I like to keep in my junk drawer at home.
My old hat (one you've already read about) not only reminds me of my late uncle Walley, but also of many hours spent around Grandma’s dinner table. Funny how when I place it on my head I travel 30 years backward in time and smell the those buttermilk biscuits sitting on the table we all gathered at. Grandma’s in the living room, in her wicker rocking chair, talking to mom and dad about old times and catching up on the family news. Uncle Jess is perched in the TV room, one leg perched over the arm of his chair as he amuses us boys by popping out his false teeth over and over again…a trick that never got old. From what I remember, us boys were usually keeping him from another episode of Hee-Haw , with Roy Clark strumming his guitar in front of the boob-tube. Grandma's house was a place of gathering for me...a place where good ole fashion fun took place, and where I like to thinm that many of my traits and values were engrained. Eventhough I hated the long drives getting there, I'll always appreciate my parents for constantly exposing me to their roots.
My old truck used to belong to “Crazy Carl”…world famous for his Halloween festivities in Independence, and known for his crazy off the wall antics. Just starting the engine to this fine piece of machinery reminds of the many years I’ve taken my kids to his house for Halloween. He never opens the door for anybody, unless they scream “trick or treat!” at the top of their lungs. If they didn't you would here a "I can't hear you" from behind the door. If they did, they were greeted by a hand puppet…mouth full of carnival toys, never candy. Throughout their years growing up, a stop at Crazy Carl's was always a "must do", as equally important as a trip to their Grandparents house that night. Now my Oldest (Mae) has continued the tradtion by taking our grand daughter to Carl's on Halloween. Yup...It was well worth the $1000 I paid for this truck to take myself back in time and picture the excitement, joy, and sometimes all out fear in my kids eyes …worth every penny.
My old 1923 trumpet must have been owned, in my mind, by some famous Jazz trumpeter, able to click off notes as if they were rolling off his tongue in some dark, dingy hideout bar, cigar smoke winding into the air as it rests in its ash tray, next to a half full glass of martini. It’s nothing for me to picture this vintage instrument in the hands of a real professional waiting to chime in on an old Glen Miller tune. I can almost hear him counting, under is breath, the rests in the music…1,2,3,4…2,2,3,4…3,2,3,4. then the squeal of reentry as he starts his solo. One of my goals in life is to take my old horn to Jim Cullim, Jazz trumpeter on San Antonio's River, and have him play a few songs for the crowd on it. You know, bring this horn full circle back to the good ole days it came from.
I have an old rusty sledge hammer belonging to my dad. Unbeknownst to him I still have it on my back porch (Sorry Dad). It’s something I rarely use, but love to picture myself swinging. When I place it in my hands, I immediately go back to the days of dad whaling on old tree stumps and on those walls mom just couldn’t live with inside the house. With every swing you could almost hear dad let out a cuss word…if not hear it you could definitely see it in his facial expressions...especially when he was knocking down those walls. On the rare occasions I do use it, as soon as the pain of swinging it kicks in, I get a burst of energy when I remember Dad’s sturdy efforts he showed every time he picked it up. I remember as a little kid looking in wonder, as Dad swung that slede like an invincible super hero, picking up a thousand pounds and swinging it over his head. Now that I'm 40, I can only imagine how little of a hero Dad felt like when he was put to the task. Nonetheless, he is, and will always be Mr. Invincable in my eyes. Keep swinging Dad, and I'll keep watching like that little kid.
I have a simple rock…a funny shaped rock my oldest brother Ron gave me many years ago when I was going through some hard times. At the time, it was a little odd for me when he placed it in my hands. A Freakin Rock? What the hell? Following the gesture he added a few simple words, which at the time struck me to the bone. He said: “I don’t know why, but when I saw this rock I picked it up thinking you needed it.“ For many there’s little to no value in these words, but to someone like me, who was at that time going through some very troubled times, these words clearly spoke as if he was offering me a hand up from the bottom. Strangely enough the rock fit perfectly in my hand, almost as if it was carved to fit like a custom made pistol grip. Holding it gave me a sense of control, when everything seemed out of control around me. Little does he know, it gave me a strong sense of security, as it opened my eyes to the fact that he was really saying “I got your back”. Ron, if you're listening...I got your back too.
I realize today, as I stare at this old rock in my junk drawer, the sledge hammer on my back porch, and my old hat, which I keep on the dash of my old “crazy Carl” truck…the things we collect from our past have no real value in dollars, but instead are reminders of where we’ve been, good times, bad times, and all the things in-between. These things, although each seemingly very small when separated from the accumulative, are responsible for who we are today, and what we’ll continue to become as time moves forward.
What have I not learned?
I wish I could say I was a pack rat…someone who collected everything I ever came across in my lifetime. I wish I could say I have thousands of pictures of myself as a kid, and ten times that many of my parents and my children as they grow older. I wish I could have collected simple trinkets, nothing of any real importance, but simple “things” from those that are no longer around to build more memories with, for someday I will most certainly regret not having something to hold or look at to remind me of them.
What have I learned?
Cherish the past and all of the things you can gather from it. Grow your collection of memories, take lots of pictures of your family and kids, and simply collect “things” as time moves forward. Allow yourself to become immersed in the stories that come, or can be imagined in these things, , and share those stories when the right times present themselves.
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