I’m a collector of treasures. Not precious metals or fancy
cars, but precious petals and lovely cards. Dried petals destined for
potpourri, but foiled by the perfect tin are scattered throughout my house. Decades
worth of calendars filled with notes from Grandma Doris, hundreds of letters
from friends, get-well cards for hospital stays, congratulatory cards for
weddings and babies, my birth announcement declaring that my parents had a
girl, and congratulations to my folks for my arrival into the world, are a
sampling of my collection. I used to have all my cards in dilapidated boxes,
which I carted from Whidbey Island to Ketchikan, Alaska and back to Washington
State. More boxes. More weight. More treasures.
I recently dedicated half a closet to cards and photos and
organized them in plastic containers. Just as my good intentions toward
potpourri are foiled, so are my intentions to create photo albums. I’m just not
that organized. Besides, if I were organized I’d miss out on the fun of having to
go through stacks of dog-eared photos to find the elusive one. I’d miss the
joyful occasion to sit on the guestroom bed, surrounded by memories, and the
surprise once again of a picture that captured a moment so significantly.
Disorganization has its perks. Nevertheless, I’ve been filling fewer boxes now
that e-mail takes the place of letters. Of course I have desktop email folders brimming
with entertaining communications. I am a bit more organized with photos now
that FB and a cloud has them somewhere in a virtual sky, but I must admit it’s
way less fun searching for photos in the vast universe. I am frustrated by my
fears of technology, of pressing the wrong button and watching my memories go
poof. I prefer the tactile, dusty adventure of breaking into tattered envelopes
containing so many wonders.
I’m also a big collector of word memories. I especially like
to snag sayings gone awry, or runaway lyrics for a fun memory later. You know,
when you’ve been singing the same song for years and finally learn the words
have nothing to do with the song, yet they seemed so right. I had an epiphany about
a song Dad used to sing to me about “Mersey Does”. I heard the song like this:
Mersey Does and Doesy Does and Little Idey Dideys, a Kiddle Dee Didey
Doo
Dad heard
me singing it in the kitchen a few years ago and realized he recognized the
tune, but not the lyrics. It makes so much more sense to me now that I know:
Mares Eat Oats and Does Eat Oats and Little Lambs Eat Ivy. Kids Eat Ivy
Too.
Remember
the rebel playground anthem (circa late 1960s,) that kids sang loud and clear
under the monkey bars? I could bellow it as well as the rest of the scoundrels:
Wanda Wanda, Wanda Wanda
Esterly Esterly
Doctors make it, teachers take it
Why can’t we? Why can’t we?
Many
years later another epiphany had me blushing when I learned Wanda Wanda wasn’t
the character from my Saturday morning kid’s show. Wanda was really Mary Jane,
or marijuana, and Esterly was LSD. Gotta love the era of the innocent flower
child.
As
much as I like to poke fun at myself for my ridiculous utterances or some
spoonerism that twisted my tongue into saying what it ought not, Mom and I also
take delight in our collection of word foibles of others, such as when I was asked
to pick up just the “Bears and
Necessities” from the grocery store. Furry friends and necessities are always
on my shopping list now. Perhaps that’s why I ended up with three pampered
poodles, at least one who thinks he’s a polar bear. Another delightful saying
that always elicits a smile is my then toddler son’s can-do-attitude statement,
“I can if I don’t want to.”
Ah,
the free riches of life. Tangible mementos from those we love, dried petals
that evoke a memory, letters honoring friendships and significant events, my
grandmother’s calendars reminding me that each day was worthy of at least a
sentence, hilarious new sayings derived from more mundane ones that have become
part of the family story, and captured snapshots in time.
These
are my most treasured collections.
