“Just Things,” They Say
05.27.07By Deanna Dahlsad
One of the saddest things to hear is that a dedicated collector is forced to sell their collection.
Whenever I’m at an estate sale, I ponder this horrid part of life.
The old “you can’t take it with you” smacks me in the face. And thrice the smarting pain, I’m faced with the knowledge that my own kids may not value any of the junk that I’ve hunted for over the years and so may just as casually offer up my goodies for sale. “They’re just things,” they’ll say, ignoring that these ‘things’ are proof of my life. (Ungrateful brats!)
And even if the estate sale is just because someone is moving to a smaller place (from the old family house to an apartment), it just seems too depressing. I wonder, should space limitations really be so accepted as we age? I mean if a collector is supposed to part with years of accumulated stuff, doesn’t that mean the dedication to searching stops? And if we stop searching, it’s like we give up…
Folks talk about how retiring can age a person. Just a few months, let alone a couple of years, can take a vibrant active person and shrink them into this old shell of a person we used to know. We no longer have a purpose and we fade. It’s the same thing when we become ‘too old to collect.’ It’s not just the things, but the action of collecting. If it is “I collect, therefore I am” then what’s the equation when we stop?
When I get to old to drive, my kids better take turns taking the old lady rummaging. And to auctions. And to thrift stores, collectors shows and whatever else I crave. If they don’t, I’ll hire a damn taxi to take me all about town. To make up for the cost of the cab, I’ll have to barter for better prices — but that’s part of the fun anyway. On weekdays I can have the cabby drive slowly through the parts of town which have garbage pick-ups waiting… And the taxi can be the get-away-car for dumpster dives (as quick as my brittle hips will allow). I’m not stopping collecting ’til I’m six feet under. And even then, my version of heaven has flea markets.
But getting old and/or dying is not the only reason collectors sell their entire collections off.
Sometimes, tough times call for drastic measures — and I’d call selling your entire Dr. Strange Collection drastic. Poor Howard Hallis quits his day job and part of tightening his belt means he might have to part with one of his babies. (I must turn away — I can’t watch!)
It’s a sad reality though. For those of us who prize collections nearly as much as our children (official rank: kids #1, pets #2, collections #3) the loss of a collection is a pretty deep cut. One should be allowed to grieve. Perhaps have services or memorials. At least have visitation rights.
And what of those who lose collections to fire, flood and tornados? (This story made us think, especially after recent events in our home.)
I guess one should prepare and plan to avoid such things. (Duck says: Aflac!) But this is America, where we already work several jobs to keep our heads — and collectibles — above water. (Duck again says: Aflac!)
“It’s only things,” people will say. But it’s not just things, is it. Those things are inexplicably tied up in who we are and what we do. And if you take them away, it hurts.
