Junk that lays around that I can’t bear to part with, that I’m downright proud of. Every time I clean and reorganize these little things are somehow hardly ever thrown away. They have an indelible mark on my psyche.
slips of paper
-notes to self
-signs made of sayings
-notes for my wallet
-electronic gadget manuals
-old book catalogs
-old pictures my wife can’t stand to have around (I once had a six inch beard that caused my wife’s skin to crawl but she couldn’t bring herself to admit that for a long time. Now she can’t stand the pictures.)
-free book bags
-a gas mask bag from WWII
shards of broken glass and shelf from a Christian’s house that was bombed out in Beit Sahour
a 1960s fishing reel that bequeathed from dad
old coins that belonged to dad
door knobs: cuz I may need them some day.
The previous occupant of my office has gadgets like that too. Old ropes and pulley systems. Old animal traps. A cow horn. Old flags.
I’d like to say that these things help me establish my sense of “place” where ever I go. But I’ll leave it up to my sister Jen to say with any certainty. She did her MA thesis on “Place.” Whaddya think Jen? Are these things indicative of the human yearning for home?