As I was cleaning at my mom's house a few weeks back, I was tearing through boxes - trying to find more things to throw away. Trying to make more space, a more manageable space for her... and selfishly, for me, a better place to visit. There were boxes of pictures, boxes of cookbooks, boxes of dirty shoes and half empty vitamin bottles. And then in one box... a collection of little ceramic miniature figurines. Little dogs and raccoons and penguins. Why? Who would have such a thing?
They were mine, I remembered. Mine from when I was a child. And in a rush of memory, I could see the display box up on my bedroom wall - each little empty square the perfect home for one of my little china friends. As I wondered when they had finally been taken down to make room for something else (A calendar? A poster or a photo of some boy?), I also wondered at the fact that I had not missed them. Seriously- there has not been a moment in the last fifteen (or 20) years that I have wished for those little dustables.
That led to wondering why had I collected them in the first place? Why do people feel the need to collect a bunch of some certain thing? Some people collect spoons. Some people stamps. I guess I can see that those items could be souvenirs from trips you've taken and that others have taken - a three dimensional, self-explanatory scrapbook. But other people collect Elvis memorabilia... or teapots.... or train signs... or even something gross like fingernail clippings. Is it the same desire that leads one person to collect Hello Kitty crap, as the one that leads another to save owl bones?
Looking back - in my case, the collections were sometimes imposed upon me. Somebody wanted me to start collecting something so that they would always know what to get for me. I had keychains - so anytime we ever went anywhere, there was never a fight or whining at the souvenir stand - it was always a keychain. I had a doll collection - and I received them ceremoniously at birthdays and holidays - and they sat on an open shelf on the wall opposite my bed, staring at me in the dark of night - preparing to come alive and climb down to pull my hair or stab me with the keychains. I think I liked them....no, I did like them. It made me feel special to have those dolls.
And of course - there were the little figurines, which were a favorite gift to be given by the older people in my life - grandparents and great-aunts and uncles - who seemed to really cherish those little things. I always reminded myself when they joyfully gave me one, how lucky I was - because they certainly never had such an abundance of things in their own childhoods.
So maybe that is it too? Having a bunch of things makes us feel safe, and wealthy? It separates us from children in older generations, and children now - who have nothing to collect and no means of procuring such an abundance of....stuff.
Or is it an identity thing? When we are children and the struggling to find an identity as a teen.... we can "be" something easily by means of a collection. Hey, that's that girl that has all those postcards! Hey, that dude has an entire collection of mint condition KISS dolls!
As I have grown older - those collections have been boxed and stored away in my memory and the closet. I did feel a twinge, if only momemtarilty as I stealthily dumped that box of figurines in the garage sale pile. Mostly, I knew it would make my mom sad. But my childhood, my security, my identity - my memories - are not in those little dogs and porcupines. I wouldn't claim to have a going collection of anything at the moment.... and apparently, I don't miss it one bit.
