Prophetic treasures and simple pleasures as Valentine’s Day approaches…
As I have asserted before, I am a collector, of objects and of memories. Gathering has been a lifelong pursuit for me, and each object I have found (or received) and kept has a story. Some of my collections are large. I own more neckties than most men I know, for example, and most of them are outrageously colorful, ugly or interesting in some way. And yes, I actually wear them, usually styled with a tailored shirt, a vest and girly jewelry. The Necktie Collection deserves to be displayed in an art museum, but it will have to settle for its own entry on Patchwork And Potpourri at some future date. Be on the lookout for that!
My collections include figurines of angels, dogs and pigs. I have collections of baskets and wreaths. A favorite wreath, heart-shaped and made of grapevine, contains dried flowers from weddings I have sung for, funerals of loved ones, flowers I have received from Sweet Pea and other friends and loved ones, and flowers I’ve sent to Sweet Pea over the years. Of course, there are also the hymnals and Bibles that came to me from Mama and other forebears, as well as treasure boxes filled with priceless cards, letters and pictures. I must be the most sentimental person in the world. Each item I have received or found has a story behind it, a reason why it belongs with me.
Someday when I am gone from this world, someone may wonder why I kept so much…stuff. Part of what I hope to accomplish with Patchwork And Potpourri is to explain my collections, and to make other people contemplate their own, and share the stories behind the stuff. Hence Longlife.
When Sweet Pea and I returned from our honeymoon, he immediately went back to work at his job, and I set about unpacking and setting up our very humble little household. Cardboard boxes filled our tiny rental house, which to us seemed like a palace even though it was really sort of a dump. We made it home and filled it with love as newlyweds always do. The first day of married reality when he went to work and I started unpacking, I was thirsty. It was the end of June, 1986, record heat and no air conditioning. We had stocked the fridge and pantry and started getting the kitchen in order, but I didn’t know which box contained the glasses. I checked boxes and scrounged around the kitchen to find something to pour my icy-cold Mello Yello into so I could fuel myself for the day’s work. In a corner of the counter I saw a grimy old pint-sized Mason jar. Just the right size for my frosty beverage once I cleaned it up!
Unlike the Mason jars Mama and The Aunts used for canning their green beans and tomatoes, this little jar did not bear the name of Ball or Kerr. It was stamped “Longlife”. Long life. What a wonderful omen for a newlywed couple starting life together in their first little rental house, filled with love and dreams and optimism. I cleaned out my new little jar, filled it with my bubbly beverage of choice and began unpacking our life together, one box at a time.
So someday, when I am gone, someone may wonder why, among the china, silver and crystal, a humble Longlife Mason jar has a place of honor in the china cabinet from Mom Cutshaw’s house. These days I don’t drink from it very often. I usually use a larger, lidded 32-ounce bottle to make sure I consume enough liquid each day, and I keep the lid on to avoid spills because I am a bit clumsy. And, truthfully, I don’t want to risk breaking my precious little jar, again, because I am clumsy. It means more to me than I could ever explain. I hope someday, now that I have told its story, it will mean just as much to someone else.