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We are physical beings, dear people, and we like having physical possessions. Children collect broken bits of plastic from the playground. (And leave them in their pockets, so that they fall out, covered in sand, in the dirty clothes basket. But I digress.) And we adults are forever tempted to define ourselves by what we own; thus marketing. It goes right back, I think, to the first tool user who decided that this stone was better than any other, and became attached to it, domesticated by it like a dog would become domesticated by one of his descendants.
This can be a bad thing, of course. Consumerism, and the consequent feelings of poverty, blunt the appetite to own a few precious things with a gluttony of clutter. We are seeing the costs of that now. And a persistent hoarder can fill a house with “indispensable possessions” (you could not walk through some of the rooms in my grandparents’ house for the things stored there). Likewise, deprivation grinds harder when everyone around you has more stuff than you do.
Wisely do those who abjure the world take vows of poverty.
But the fact that an aspect of our natures can twist like a knife in the hand and damage us does not make it go away. To turn this possessiveness into a helpful force, we should own a few dear things, care for them, and cherish them. (Note, however, that all things pass; we must drink from the cup as though it is already broken rather than hide it to keep it safe.)
What, of the things that you possess or are possessed by, are most precious to you? Why?
For my part, I would name three things.
This is—clearly—a non-political thread.
You know, that's a hard question for me. I'm *certainly* not short on possessions, many of which I value, but I'm not bringing to mind ones I value extremely outside of photos and personal paper (my own and from relatives), and tools. The tools are all subject to being replaced by better tools (just going through that with the most expensive ones in fact, sigh), so I think I can honestly claim it's not the *particular* camera or lens or knife I value, but rather what I can do with it.
I'm currently rather pleased to have what I think is the sliderule I used through highschool back, which is in the category. And there are some books, like first-edition Doc Smith, that I value even if/when I have that version of the text in electronic form.
A silk scarf, given to me by someone very dear to my heart. He bought it for me to give to me as a surprise, then left it in a shop in the town we'd been visiting together, had another friend retrieve it thence, and several months later was able to present it to me.
It's the perfect colours.
I miss him, and cherish the reminder of less fraught times together.
The assemblage of small tools I carry in my handbag: My Swiss army knife, multi-head pen-sized screwdriver, mini-Leatherman, yardstick inna can. Many are gifts from another very dear friend. who gifts me with tools. I like having on hand the tools I need in order to do things, and hate leaving many of them behind when I fly anywhere.
My black velvet coat with hot pink skulls screenprinted on it, and the hot pink satin lining. I look great in it, no matter what else I'm wearing.
The white glass bedside lamp I've had since I was two, moving it carefully from dwelling to dwelling. It's always shone on the books I read in bed.
1. A small music box my mother gave me as a graduation present. It plays "I Hope You Dance," and it makes me smile every time I open it.
2. A 1919 treadle-powered sewing machine I just got up and running again. I learned to sew from my mother, who learned from her mother, who learned from her big sister. Sewing has become our heirloom. We have no others.
3. My motorcycle. Because I bought it my very own self, and it's totally awesome.
I have a small framed watercolor print of Mont St. Michel, which I visited half a lifetime ago and was so impressed by I didn't even know what to do with it. I don't think my mouth closed completely the entire time I was there.
I bought the print at one of the half-bazillion gift shops that lined the town's twisty streets. It was nothing special, not even a real watercolor - only a print of one - but the colors were soft and warm and vaguely Impressionistic and the artist had added a boat in the foreground, lying on its side on the empty floodplain that surrounds the city, and something about it struck me more than the seventy gazillion ultra-realistic photos of the place also being sold there.
Since then it's hung in every single one of the (many) homes I've had.
It value is practically nothing, money-wise, but if I woke up and my house was on fire, this picture is one of the things I would grab before running for the door. To me, it's not so much a picture of a place I've been, as it is a reminder that there is magic and adventure in the world, and I got to have some.
After lamenting the demise of Mother's Cookies I have realized that I am a very fortunate monkey indeed. I have friends, family, a dog, my health (mostly) and enough stuff. But what I would mourn terribly if I lost it are:
1.) My terrible, half-plywood cello. It has been upgraded as much as is reasonable and played with love for over two decades. Despite its obvious flaws, it has a sweet voice. I fantasize about landing a few thousand unexpected dollars and upgrading, but then I don't know where I will fit two cellos in my apartment.
2.) The amazing bow for my cello, which lost its original screw and therefore its provenance and was subsequently affordable to me.
3.) My Nauga, bought by my parents a decade ago to atone for selling my childhood security-Nauga at a yard sale for a dime.
4.) My bright red raincoat, which cheers me on the few days a year we get drizzle in L.A.
I learned the hard way about possessions and cherishing. I used to have a nice book collection... that of course went bye-bye, as hefty things you cannot take along do when you have to flee.
My precious things:
- My Kindle and its little power thingy. I read books on it. And actually a lot of websites, too. And Twitter. I also use it for my audio books.
- My Mighty Brite booklight, which doubles as a task lamp or a really bright and angling flashlight, because there's nothing like a familiar light in a horrible hotel.
- My MacBook Pro, to access email, the blog, the file server, banking information, and the Amazon S3 stash. And also write.
Very little else really matters.
Thanks for posting this, Abi...
I've got a couple of indian-ink sketches by my great-grandfather which have travelled around with me for some time; a few books I wouldn't want to lose; a prismatic compass that belonged to another great-grandfather in Flanders; a couple of maps... most of the other things I value are liable to get replaced or upgraded (boots, camera etc) as David remarked above.
1. My road bike. It's a Bob Jackson. My first really nice road bike was a Bob Jackson, and when I visited England in '97, I stopped by the factory in Leeds for a visit. I had them measure me for a custom frame at that time, and two years later, ordered one. It's not quite as high-tech or light as some of the bikes out there these days, but it's a honey.
2. My copy of Generation X. There are many like it, but this book is mine. I read that book in one sitting and it hit me at just the right moment in my life. There are very few books that I appreciate as artefacts, but this is one.
3. My 3-door Stickley bookcase, which once belonged to Ann Richard's mother. When my wife and I remodeled our house, we designed the floor plan around it.
All of this will be lost in the fire, if it ever comes.
I try not to bond too much with atoms, but there are two things I would ache to lose: my wedding ring. And some pictures of my Arabian horse Kehilan Alfarn, of blessed memory.
The twelve-volume set of "My Book House," and its three companion volumes (Nursery Friends from France, Tales Told in Holland, and Little Pictures from Japan) that my grandparents originally bought for their three sons. There were seven grandchildren, but they gave the set to me. Not all at once -- they inscribed Little Pictures from Japan to me when I was four, and I got to take it home, but the other volumes stayed there, treasures to be curled up with at Rosh Hashanah and Passover and Hannukah, and I don't remember what the system was for when I got to take another one home. They're full of fairy tales and mythology and poetry, and I love them.
My grandmother said that those books were the only thing they ever bought on time payments (during the Depression, at that) and that they'd been well worth it.
1. A green velvet pillow with a lion cub cross-stitched onto it, made by my mother's mother.
2. When my mother's father left his home of 60 years for an assisted living community, the family went through and tried to divide up all the things he couldn't take with him. Among them were a number of teacups and saucers, which weren't part of a matched set. When no one else wanted them, I was thrilled. I love them, and use them all, but my favorite is a green and yellow one from 1923. I'd be sad if it broke, because I have yet to find any remaining ones like it.
3. My favorite t-shirt is red, and has a picture of a woman wearing a dress, and holding a slingshot. It puts me in the mood to get things done whenever I wear it.
This is hard. I've spent a lot of my life with a sense of transience, and things get lost (three moves = a fire).
I have a goblet which I value. The maker no longer makes. But it's not precious in that way. The nipperkin, made by the same hand... that is because it was gifted me, by the maker, for a small spot of help one weekend.
As a matter of habit, I wear a knife (a better all-around tool than a good knife of 3"-5" is hard to think of). My Buck is so familiar that like a samurai with years of practice I can have it in hand and working before the intention is truly realised, and it goes back to sheath without the use of my eyes. When I am not wearing it (or one of it's few fellows, of similar nature) it is if I am undressed. Should I reach for it and find it missing the world lurches and I am out of balance.
Any of a number of dishes. They are an odd lot... A covered rice bowl, a roughly made coffee cup, bare of glaze at the bottom and the glaze with spills over the inside is thick, and colored as if it were cream, slightly colored with coffee; spilling over the edge. They are comforts, given me as tokens of affection, and as such carry with them the echoes of the givers, even when they are far from me. Solace for the heart as they carry comfort for the flesh.
I could never take it with me in a hurry, it is not on the One-Bag List that every Jew who knows history has lurking in the back of h* mind, but it is not a Place Where I Live without my big, solid banker's desk that used to be my mother's office desk when she ran her own business. It is huge and dignified and a bit dinged up and the previous century hangs about it like a favorite old coat on a bentwood rack.
As natural as my new bodhran feels in my hands, I could replace or upgrade it and the music would still be mine. So count me as the odd musician who wouldn't name his instrument on this list...though it, in its padded gig bag, would probably be the One Bag mentioned above.
I have a few things from my grandfather that all fit in one pocket. Some foreign currency, a round aluminum tag with his name and date of induction to the USMC. My mother is keeper of all the family heritage pictures, I'll have to trust her there.
There are a few books I couldn't replace easily, but if I had to jam I could leave them with few regrets. The rarest of my music is stored in my USB key frob or my phone.
I would miss my Renteria Don Quixote but he is far too fragile to travel with easily. It's remarkable that Mom got him home from Mexico safely at all.
I have four things I would be very sad to lose:
1) My first edition of von Humboldt's Personal Narrative
2) The cat (OK, she may actually be number 1)
3) The server's backup external drive
4) The laptop
My Mom was born in Berlin in 1943. She was brought up on stories of grandma's beautiful china that was never used and is now gone. My Mom uses all her good dishes from time to time. That's what they are for. I learned that from her.
Adam Rice @8: I, too, have a three door Stickley bookcase. I bought it to house the von Humboldt. It contains all the books I would pack into the car if I had enough time to do so before evacuating. The rest of my library is replaceable.
I own a brass edition of Berrocal's "Richelieu" -- one of, I think, 1000 that he cast.
It's precious in dollars, because only so many exist. It's precious because it's a perfect 3D jigsaw puzzle, and also lovely.
It's precious to *me* because when I was very young -- eight maybe? ten? -- my parents took me to an exhibition of Berrocal's work. I walked around with my eyes big as saucers, looking at the perfect 3D jigsaw puzzles.
Then I asked "How much do these cost?" And my parents said, more or less, "A lot." I decided I would eventually own one. When I was 30, I looked around, looked at my finances, looked at some prices, and realized I could afford it. So I did. My eight-year-old self and my 30-year-old self *both* deserved it.
I'm one of those who accumulates Stuff, and I'm much more attached to the experiences than the Stuff these days. Still and all, I'd risk running back for:
the original Albrecht Durer woodcut I found going through my grandmother's print collection, as a symbol of that collection and a grandmother I may have only one very dim memory of;
the original typed ms of Cordwainer Smith's "Scanners Live in Vain" and the small archive that includes his carbon of the submission letter and his own copy of his first collection of stories;
an odd silver bullion coin that I use for flipping occasionally, with a beehive on the front and a north-polar view of the earth showing South American and Australia on the back;
small presents from several people, and no I won't go into details.
* A large framed collection photo of 1917's duly elected state senators of K--, notable because it's the only picture of my grandfather that I can recall seeing
* My wedding ring, the only surviving possession of my other grandmother
* A golden pottery bowl, over a foot across, that I picked out last year at the Texas Clay Festival
* Two antique draw-leaf tables, one with great barley-twist legs in some burled wood, the other of no particular beauty except that I've used it as a desk for just over twenty years. The top needs serious mending, but it's seen me through novels, a dissertation, a master's thesis, a lot of code, and a whole bunch of rasfc and ML
* Signed copies of several novels by Dorothy Dunnett
* My paring knife with the wooden handle and the two-inch blade. Unfortunately I seem to have lost it totally last week.
* My laptop, which has much of my intellectual life tucked away on it
My husband and my cat go without saying.
I'm one of those people who has tons of things but cherishes memories more. I'm also most pleased with tools— cameras, Photoshop, craft stuff.
But for outright irreplaceable I could go with the paper doll my Nana drew for me. I'm scanning it but boy, that takes forever on my (good lord, ten years old) scanner.
I have a lot of Stuff, some of which I am very fond of, but very little of it is irreplaceable. If there was a fire and I lost everything, I think I would most mourn the quilts and stuffed animals I made. I can make more--and do, and will--but not *those*. Or perhaps my fabric stash, which is constantly turning over but has fabrics I will never find again. There are books that would be a pain to replace, but I'm attached to the words, not the particular package.
I rarely need to wear immensely warm jumpers these days, but the one my mother made me is probably the one article of clothing I'd really miss - undyed wool from a black sheep I fed myself. I still have my childhood teddy bear, too, that my grandmother made me.
The third thing would be my godfather's treasured 3rd generation Fourth Folio - it's inscribed with a note at the front, saying that it's an exact replica of a replica owned by Edmund Kean.
I'd miss my favourite kitchen knife, too - an ugly, crude-looking piece of Vietnamese carbon steel from a car suspension strap, with an epoxy handle I moulded myself - and all the other tools I use. But those are mementoes of my own choice, my own taste, and being able to acquire them for myself is more a part of my own personal myth than the objects themselves.
I've got way too much stuff, but there are only a few things I'd really miss.
1 - My grandfather's ring. It's a grey sapphire ring, with two very small (small enough to call chips# diamonds in a white gold setting. He found the stone during WW2 when he was in the Seabees, and brought it home. He exchanged part of the stone for the ring setting, and earrings for my grandmother.
2 - My grandmother's china cabinet. It's a small cabinet, probably from the 1920s. She painted it #she painted anything that didn't move, and some things that did), and friends of mine stripped and refinished it while it was on long-term loan. It has some nice inlay on the solid lower doors.
3 - My mother's ceramic nativity set. She hand-painted all of the pieces, and it's been around just about as long as I have. It's the only holiday decoration I put out.
1. One of the last things my mother gave me before the divorce was a ceramic frog she glazed herself. She was horrified when I scratched my name into its back. I was five. This is the oldest thing I own.
2. Similarly, one of the few things I have from my maternal grandmother is a hand-made ragdoll. I have not seen anyone from that side of my family in over 30 years.
3. My dog Squire, who is the smartest animal I have ever met. He is the light of my life.
I'm hard pressed to find anything that approaches the value of those three. The rest is just stuff. (Even the other dog, though I love her. ;) )
I don't really commit to objects; I have a short period where I really love them, after that it's mostly fond memories. For now:
A brimmed hat my parents got me in South Africa. It keeps the sun off me and hides that my hair is thinning.
A green bouncy rubber ball which was in a cracker and has passed from hand to hand since Christmas until it reached me. I just like the way it feels (it's in my hand as I type this).
My cake tin. It has a clear top so you can see the cake. And I'm back baking cakes at the moment.
The sudden move across country we made when I was 10 means I don't have a whole lot of belongings that I've carried all the way through life. A couple, though:
The diamond-chip earrings my father sent for my 10th birthday after we left him behind.
The larger diamond engagement ring and wedding band my husband gave me.
My cell phone, which doubles as an mp3 player. It's adorable and very useful.
Fortunately, all three of these things are always on my person, so I won't lose them in case of any major moving emergency.
My postcards of the Winchester Bible, because it was once of the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
A very small (hand-sized) and not particularly stuffed lamb from my childhood, tied to memories of my paternal grandmother.
A stuffed tiger (Shere Kahn Jr.) my dad bought me when I was in my tweens.
A silver unicorn pendant from my mom, to remind me not to forget--oh, so many things.
A photograph of autumn leaves by a dear friend--especially precious because I live in California now and I'm aching for proper seasons.
My Complete Works of Shakespeare (which is languishing in a box, back in Delaware, but I will soon have sent to me), because it was, once upon a time, everything I wanted in the world.
I forgot one... My cloak. An inverness, of the same vintage as the goblet; given to me for my birthday. It's worn, but not yet shabby. Where it once was pea-wool now the weave is starting to show. The plastic buttons it had I replaced with pewter roses up the front, and the cape is attached with stag.
It's kept me warm on many a cold night, and dry on many a dank; and elstwise dreary, day. When soaked it has the smell of the sheep it came from. On one, memorable, occasion it was carrying eight pounds of water. I, inside it, was dry everywhere it covered me.
It was lost, and came back to me after years (having hidden itself, somehow, in a friend's parents' closet). When it finally dies I shall have the pattern copied (though perhaps with the buttons reversed to be male-sided, and a lining added; with flaps to cover the riding vents.
So, cups, knives, cloak, my precious things are those, it seems, I would be able to walk the length and breadth of the world with, and not so well without.
I have been blessed in the gifts of my friends.
A mug with a picture of a ladybird and the name I used to answer to, which I used to think was magic because I dropped it on the path and it didn't break.
My Swiss army knife, bought in Geneva in 2000. I misplaced it the other day, and the intensity of my panic took me by surprise.
My programmes and tickets, which help jog my memory of all the matches I've been to. When we had the fire, I was a season ticket holder at Scunthorpe United, and the season ticket was the first thing I took out of the smoke-damaged house after the fire.
The Hoarder's Patchwork: sentimental fabric scraps plus six years and counting of hard work.
It's not exactly on topic for this -- but I found several bags of what must have been some other sewing person's stash of buttons at the thrift store last night, and between that, and some other things I'll avoid going into, found myself musing on the impermanence of succession in this day and age.
I'd estimate that the collection[0] ranges from the early 1920s up to the 1980s-or-early-1990s ... and suspect an old lady, well past the years of sewing for her family, perhaps dead -- perhaps moved by circumstances out of the home she'd lived in for years, and forced to part with her accumulated objects -- but in either case, I wonder what the person(s) eventually discovering my stash of buttons will think of the collection passed to them.
[0] Collection in the sense of an assemblage, rather than any formal thing.
I'm one of the ones with way too much stuff, but I'm less attached than I used to be. Here are a few that matter.
A "dancing fish" glass plate that I bought in Mexico a few years ago. I don't often treat myself, and I bought this just for me because it made me smile. and it still does. It sits on top of the bookshelf in my office.
There's the collection of tourist shot glasses we've been accumulating for probably 25 years now. It started out as a kind of joke, but has become an enjoyable reminder of places we've been. Even my teenager finds them enjoyable instead of lame. They're overflowing the shelves for them in the dining room, and need a new one.
I'm fond of some kitchenware (skillet, large spoon) that was my mom's. They have value both practical and sentimental.
There's a photograph of my several-times-great grandfather, referred to in the family as "the marmoset grandpa" because of his big muttonchop whiskers.
This might be foolish -- I often am -- but I am fiercely, insanely, to the point it makes me ill at times -- in love with my house. And it's not a great house: parts of it are a hundred years old, and parts of it are fifty years old, and there are parts of it that would make anyone who knows anything about proper building just weep.
But it is mine, paid for solely out of money I made writing. And it wasn't until it was actually paid for that my husband, who had a childhood that could be best described at tumultous -- he moved seven times, one year -- broke down and cried, for now he never has to move again.
I know, it could go away, in a blizzard or a fire, or a flood. But I prefer to think it has stood this long, and it will last long enough that he never has to go without 'home' again.
Rikibeth: My mother has a very similar connection to her set of the "My Book House" series. She inherited it from her father, whose mother, like your grandmother, bought it in time payments during the Depression. Their family valued the books so highly that my grandfather, as a child, was not allowed to touch them without first washing his hands. My mother always loved the way the stories in that series were told, and the look of the finely printed illustrations.
I myself am very attached to a bust of Beethoven--the color of bronze but apparently some sort of plastic--that I also inherited from my mother's father. As a child, it stood on a record player in a dark back room of my grandfather's house, and used to terrify me. He just looks very grim, Beethoven does.
I have too many "things" in my life, especially books. Many of my favorites are autographed, and I can't decide which is most important. But one that isn't autographed probably tops the list of what goes with me: my 1972 edition of "Principia Discordia".
My athame, which I assembled from a kit. I didn't have the facilities (or abilities) to forge a knife, but I thought I should do more than just buy one.
My moonstone and silver handfasting ring*, and my blue dendritic agate and silver ring that was a gift from my father. I wear them most of the time, so they go where I go.
*My partner, Martin, has an identical ring which he wears most of the time as well.
Sometimes I ponder what I'd take if I had to reduce everything to one car load.
The dog would take up half of the rear seat.
I probably boil it down to mostly practical stuff. "Practical" these days necessarily including a backup drive and maybe a laptop.
Other than that, a file box of photos, I suppose.
I might indulge myself with file box of gaming things, including the stuff I had published.
* * *
I'd MISS many things, but I'd be satisfied with donating them. I hate those "moving sales" where people leaving an apartment heap up stuff by a dumpster.
Is this stuff I own, currently? There are a few nice things in my parents' house that will be mine, though I don't know how I could take a piano in a fire...
1.) My cat.
2.) An antique silver hand mirror.
3.) My set of "My Bookhouse" books, six of them, from when my grandfather was small.
I would also take my writing and drawing archive, if I could.
It's quite a useful exercise to decide on a small number of easily-carried items that are the most important, and have a good idea of where they are, so they can be snatched up in less than a minute.
I grabbed my pre-selected items and took shelter this summer when a tornado was coming. It passed about 300 yards to the east. If it had been a direct hit, those things I carried may have been the only things I'd have left.
Three things here, all inherited, two old.
My desk, a giant wooden monster rescued from a tip by my father, that has been with me for 23 years now and has barely fitted through the door of each house I've moved to. Battered and scored, they don't make desks like this anymore: you could jump on it and it wouldn't wobble.
My grandfather clock. Who knows when it was made, if it was even one clock originally: my great-grandfather rescued it in pieces from a second-hand shop, and it must have been old even then. Almost every part of it has been replaced at some point but it's still the same axe, er, clock. It smells *wonderful*, old wood and iron. I learnt to tell the time by staring obsessively at it and learning its every vibration and pre-chime shiver, for perhaps an hour every day for a year.
The family sofas, now sitting behind me because, well, they're nasty cheap brown-covered 1970s things that everyone other than me really doesn't like and that are losing their foam interior at a considerable rate. But I grew up with them and they've got scratches on which are the last remaining memento of the family cat.
So, three cheap and nasty old things that gained meaning by dint of long coexistence with people (and cats).
Jamie Hall @ 35 ... I once had the experience of running full tilt out of a data center (thanks to a fire suppressant dump), and discovering that the things of greatest import to me appeared to be the pager, the other pager, and the cell phone[0].
I'm not sure that would be the case today -- but I can vouch that my choices turned out to be the most useful ones out of the several dozer folk there -- I could actually get the call center rerouted, and appropriate staff en route to deal with the issue.
Hmmm.
The cats go without saying. I'm not sure they're possessions; they're more sort of companions.
My iPhone. It's still a device from the future. I can communicate with anyone using darn near any method with the thing -- can comment here, send an email, a phone call, a text message, make a blog post or a Facebook update. I can look up darn near any piece of information anywhere -- catnip to someone with a trivia-loving brain. (I haven't played Trivial Pursuit since it was invented; I imagine it has to be outlawed.) It still feels like magic.
What's more, it was a completely unexpected gift from my boyfriend. We don't usually exchange gifts at all, much less something with that price tag (I know you're not supposed to know how much gifts cost -- but it was possibly the biggest tech launch ever, and I can read). It was given because he wanted to give it, because he knew it would make me happy, because he knew I really wanted one but would never buy one for myself, and I didn't expect it at all. That makes it more special to me.
Creature comforts: my washer and dryer (bought cheap, used) that mean I can do laundry at any time of the day and night, in my own home. My stove. My home itself; I saved like crazy to make the down payment and I do feel pride and independence in owning it, even though I worry myself sick about it these days.
My laptop, for the same reasons as the phone except that it was not a gift. (It's really the data on the laptop; I back it up in two places, in two separate locations, so if anything happens it's retrievable.)
(Are these threads the Making Light equivalent of unicorn chasers?)
Item one: My grandmother's parents' and uncle's immigration documents, simply framed, presented to me by my gran on my 40th birthday. They include photos, and my great-grandparents' solemn oath that they were not anarchists nor polygamists.
Item two: The beautiful Japanese knives that my partner gave me for Christmas, a few years ago.
Item three: The sampler stitched by a friend for me, with the phrase "the patriarchy drives me nuts!" on it.
I try to make sure I have my pocket-sized Leatherman micro with me at all times. Sure the Sebertech M4 is also nice, but it's bulkier.
My PDA is also in my pocket, at all times. It has my memory banks in it, for it contains not just appointments and contacts, but also fragments of writing that caught my attention, small formularies, important business items, occasional drafts, downloaded books and photos. I haven't added music, but I could.
There's always a flashlight near me, too. I learned in my years of travel and deprivation that a source of light comes in handy.
Tea. If I don't have some form of hot tea once daily, I'm not fit for human interaction. OK, in the really hot days of summer, I'll substitute warm tea or even cold tea, but it's always real tea.
In case of emergency, my partner and son would rescue the dogs, and I would get the cats. The rest of the stuff we own can be replaced, but lives are irreplaceable.
The are a heap of favourite books and DVDs that are like old friends, but other than signed copies, most could easily be replaced if destroyed.
The few things that are irreplacable to me are:
1) My 1906 edition of The Complete Works of Shakespeare, that belonged to my late parents.
2) A kids book called 'The Dragon and the Jadestone', that my father bought for my birthday the year he died. He'd written an inscription in it, wrapped it, and hidden it away, but died three months before my 8th birthday. It was so wonderful to get a gift 'from beyond the grave'.
3) Rinny - a preposterous toy dachshund that my mother made from an old coat when I was 6 months old. I don't know what I called him when I was very small, but he eventually got named after Rin Tin Tin. Rinny was my security blanket, my best friend and confidante, and an ever present help in times of trouble all though my childhood. I took him everywhere and cried all over him more times than I can count. These days, he is very bald in places from years of cuddling, and smells a bit manky (he'd fall apart if washed), but if the place ever catches fire, he's the first thing I'd grab.
Aside from the gadgets I simply cannot live without (my laptop, Treo, and iPod) the most important objects in my life are:
* the framed photograph of my dad and I (aged 10) in our sailboat on Casco Bay. My brother not only took the photo, but developed, color-processed, and enlarged it himself.
* the signed CD booklet of Kate Bush's The Dreaming (currently framed on the wall)
* the signed copy of A Wrinkle in Time
(I don't count the cats as "objects", they're family. :)
Oh, and I can't believe I forgot this one:
The plastic crocodile beach toy I've had since my first week in college. My 17th birthday was only a couple days after the start of freshman orientation, and by the time my RA noticed it was almost midnight. She organized an expedition wherein a bunch of my hallmates crashed the WestCo Beach Party across campus and stole it, then brought it back and wrapped it in a poster similarly stolen from the wall of one of the Administration buildings. They all knocked on my door and sang me "happy birthday" and presented it to me with great pomp and circumstance. For a homesick kid who'd resigned herself to a lost and lonely birthday, that meant the world. I vowed right then that I'd be buried with The Croc :), and it's followed me everywhere I've lived ever since.
I own thousands of books and cds. Not much else. But they all could be replaced. These things could not.
1. A small worn picture of my paternal grandfather. It shows a tall dark PA mtn Scot, grim and foreboding, standing in front of the farmhouse in which I grew up. He was a Wobblie and a union organizer who marched with Mother Jones. It is the only artifact I have of him. He died a month after I was born, but stories from his life shaped my worldview to a large degree. In the early Teens, he famously told the local KKK organizer "Sir, all of us are black down in the mine."
2. A larger framed photo of my maternal grandfather. He is gray haired and in a suit sitting in his factory office. It reminds me of how wonderful his office was for a small child, smelling of pipe tobacco, oiled leather and its hot coal stove.
3. My lp of Babatunde Olatunji's Drums of Passion. Signed "To My Friend and Colleague" by Baba at the end of the two week long drumming workshop I was blessed to take from him. Taking this workshop broke my years long deep clinical depression and showed me the path home through music. I am not being dramatic in the slightest here.
4. A small worn brown fuzzy puppet named Beowulf that Jim Henson once borrowed from me to use to demonstrate something at a convention back in the late 70's. I was properly awestruck.
My few items of Le Creuset + the couple of stainless steel pots, which are a lot lighter.
Love, C.
My few items of Le Creuset + the couple of stainless steel pots, which are a lot lighter.
But most of all my very heavy, alas, beautifully seasoned cast iron pots and skillets.
Love, C.
In the things loved but not portable category: The large oak dining table my mother bought second hand a few months after I was born. My mother thinks it's at least 25 years older than I am. Family gatherings, with all the leaves in, and I having to crawl under the table to sit in the back corner. Covering it in blankets to make a fort. Standing on it to have hems pinned in all the dresses and pants my mother made for me. Now, the earthquake bugout bags sit under it, and the cats find it suitable for sitting at the front windows.
A coffee mug with a cartoonish guy walking a tightrope above dots-for-audience. As I turn the cup, the balance rod turns into a pencil, which in turn is drawing the tightrope. Turn further to find the far pole for the tightrope, and the saying by Albert Einstein, Imagination is more important than knowledge. It's the cup I use for tea when I'm not feeling creative and I need to be.
Hermes the Golden. One orange tabby siamese, my second generation be careful what you ask for cat. I rescue cats, and for a while they were mostly black, gray, or gray tabby. I asked for an orange cat. I made the mistake of asking for an orange cat who needed me, and got Morris. Morris was severely diabetic, had a broken back that meant he couldn't groom himself completely, and was generally a love. I kept him fed and housed for 2 1/2 years, until his diabetes proved too much. When asking for a replacement, I waved a finger sky-ward and said "and you know damned well what I mean!" I got Herm, orange for me, siamese for Jim, fat tail as requested by my mother, cheese-aholic instead of the requested chicken-aholic, opinionated, loud, grubby little boy (he never comes back in the house remotely clean) and my lap lion. I am his and he is mine and the world is good.
Three first editions from the 1950s, given to me by my father (divorced from my mother when I was four or five) who discovered that I had inherited his love for science fiction. A Doc Smith, a George O. Smith, and a Jack Williamson which I had autographed.
I try to deny my materialistic urges, but in the end, I get sentimental easily. And I gather stuff. I feel guilty wanting a bigger house, especially when I remember the tiny cottage I shared with my family as a kid (I drive past it about once a week for some reason or another). But little of it is irreplacable. I would get over it, I suspect.
But then there's Chubby. He's my childhood stuffed animal, the one I've loved since I was a baby. He might have to get stuffed back in the jump bag.
I am completely owned by my unread books. They rule my life. On the flip side, there are a few pieces of jewelry and clothing, a few precious ancient books that I would mourn deeply if lost, but the only thing of mine that gives me a deep freezing feeling at the thought of never seeing again is my piano music, and my piano. Which is weird, because I hardly ever play anymore. This thread really makes me wish I had a dog. So many wonderful touchstones of life.
#12 Terry Karney re: buck knife
I too, have a buck knife. My father gave it to me and I have a special custom-made sheath for it. It is a fabulously useful thing and I should miss it terribly.
The cats, and their other dad, go without saying.
Hmm, these are all from the kitchen. People will get the wrong idea of the importance of cooking in my daily life.
Okay, now for some for fannish keepsakes.
Things I am possessed by:
Esme, my bari sax. She's far more sax than I deserve, and they don't build them like her anymore. There is a reason for this (mostly the less than optimal key configuration), but she's got such a sweet voice.
An otherwise unremarkable cylindrical ceramic vase, in early 1960s harvest gold speckle glaze. It was always on the kitchen table or counter in the summer, full of flowers from the garden.
The tooled leather dresser case that my father bought for his mother when he was in basic training in Arizona -- inside it are two items (a horsehair brush and a lacquer bowl) that she brought with her from her childhood home in the Ukraine (through forced resettlement in Siberia, emigration to the US through China, and a 7 year stay in Windsor).
The oversized oak desk my mother's father bought from a public school in 1930. He used it for 45 years, my mom used it for another 30, and now it's mine.
A corduroy giraffe wearing a messenger bag. His name is Gaston. When my mother's sister moved to Florida, she didn't want to take him, but wouldn't give him away. Every time I talk to her, she wants to know how he's doing. I have no idea why he's so important to her, and she wouldn't ever say, but....
Family and Absolutely Not Replaceable:
- a blanket chest, made by my great-grandfather for the youngest of his three daughters (not very portable, but it does have handles, and casters that need to be replaced)
- a watercolor, done by my grandmother (his daughter-in-law), in 1908, while she was in college
- a crocheted Diplocaulus, made by my sister. She took it into the local tackle shop, put it on the counter, and said 'It lives in the bottom of a river. What kind of bait would you use?'
rikibeth@10: Ack! You have "My Book House"? I'm so jealous! My grandparents had those, and I always spent hours with them when we went to New Jersey to visit them. When they died, I asked, but they went to another wing of the family, which was fine, because I didn't see childbearing in my future. But I sure loved those books.
And Dear Lord, the illustrations! The printing! I'm a printing geek, and I still remember the beauty.
My three things:
The howdah: My dad bought it at Woodie's Parkington Garage Sale in the '70s, and I always slept in it when I went to visit him and my stepmom.
My dad built race cars then, and his driver's father-in-law was—get this—a foam engineer. So this man (God rest his soul) designed the perfect foam matress for this elephant saddle.
It's a striking and beautiful piece of furniture, all hand-carved teak. There's nothing like it.
My Amamah's library table: Amamah was my maternal grandmother, but my dad wound up with possession of this desk, and it wouldn't give it back to my mom, but gave it to me. (Between that and the signed copy of Mrs. Tawes's Maryland cookbook...let's just say it got ugly.) It's beautiful and simple and sturdy, just like my Amamah.
Grandmom's yellow chairs: When my Grandmom died, my dad drove a truck from California to DC to retrieve the family heirlooms. Before he got to Nashville, he asked, "What do you want?"
I wanted the things that I remembered from their house in New Jersey.
I said, "The print of the little boy pissing in the river."
"Mine. Next?"
"The little apothecary jars labeled 'Hashish,' 'Cocaine,' and 'Cannabis.'"
"Mine. Next?"
"The litle salt cellars that looked like little footie bathtubs?"
"Aunt Judy's. Next?"
"The yellow chairs?"
Well, I got those yellow chairs, though they're a little ragged now.
He told me she made them and upholstered them herself back in the beer years, but had them professionally re-upholstered when they moved up to gin.
My partners and cats (two human, four feline) are the most precious because they're the only things that are not replaceable in my life.
However.
I have a photo of my father and family, he looked like he was three or four at the time (it looks like a snapshot, not a formal portrait--Brownie camera? It had to be 1926-27 in time).
My laptop has all my thoughts, ideas, etc. I back it up often but I've had one stolen and it was devastating. The current one is named Stardust, after the NASA mission.
The first Ballentine Lord of the Rings trilogy, with the wonderful red/purple/blue/etc. art covers. It's too fragile to take out of the box much anymore. When I wanted to re-read prior to the movie release, I bought the trade paperback volumes with the photo-from-the-movie covers. The tail feathers of my very first pet, Otis the mis-named female budgerigar, are interleaved in the pages. I think I first read it with her on my shoulder/arm/hand 'helping'. She was a sweet little soul that I still miss.
Otherwise we have too much stuff. We seem to be accumulating stuff from family members who are downsizing, too. Yikes!
Despite my near-pathological difficulty in getting rid of stuff (the result of 2.6 fire equivalents as a child), I don't actually have any truly special objects.
But, I'm almost never without my Leatherman Wave and my leather belt pouch with the real necessaries (CPR shield, 2 pair gloves, small packet aspirin, really good tiny flashlight,extra battery, bullet pen, and blank business cards for writing notes) which is a talisman against disaster.
Things that have some meaning once I think about it:
The cast iron pancake pan that has helped me make pancakes since I was four (slightly concave -- so the butter slides to the center), the portable Kipling that has kept me entertained in doctor's offices, bus stations, and while waiting for any number of thinks, and my father's staghorn handled hunting knife from Abercrombie and Fitch -- not because it was my father's, but because I'm perpetually amused by how the company's business has changed (I would be similarly amused by a run-of-the-mill tool from Brookstone's from when they were a hardware store (I undoubtedly still have some, but they aren't distinguishable), or military surplus from Banana Republic (all worn out)).
We moved a lot when I was a kid, and I still move fairly often (the longest I've ever lived in one place was five years). In addition, my mother had to leave everything behind except us kids and start over with absolutely nothing, more than once. Until I thought about it now, I hadn't realized how much I'd internalized the idea that things are to be enjoyed and loved and used, but that eventually you lose them, and that's okay.
I do have some things that I don't want to lose. The silk batik of Salome that my grandmother made is probably my most precious thing. If I ever have a fire, assuming my dog and cats are safely out first, I'd grab the batik.
And my ancient and heavy feather pillow is the only pillow I've ever found that's truly comfortable. I've had it for about a quarter century now, and it was old when I got it. I also love the blue teapot and two matching mugs that my mother gave me. They're handmade by a local artist.
My Kromski Symphony spinning wheel and Asus eee laptop are dear to me, but they're tools and therefore replaceable.
hamletta @ 53: Used book sellers often have My Book House sets available. One told me once that it's nearly impossible to find a set where volume 1 isn't trashed (as mine is), because the youngest children who liked the nursery rhymes often wore it out before they knew how to treat books.
My uncle may have regretted my grandparents' decision a little bit -- he was an antiques dealer for many years, and picked up several extra sets along the way after my grandparents gave the originals to me.
I agree, they're beautiful artifacts -- the physical look of them is very important to me, beyond just the stories in them.
That howdah sounds AMAZING.
Hmm. I could do a long list of 'second-order' stuff (...yes, we have Too Much Stuff...); but the one item at the very top of my list is my father's Starrett combination square.
I use it every time I do woodworking - and it still connect us, nearly 20 years after his death.
What's hilarious is that - despite how reverently I was taught to treat it - as a pure anonymous object, it would be surprisingly cheap to replace.
My list of 'second-order' stuff would start with the Family Picnic Blanket, the one that's slightly older than I am, the blanket that I parked my own children on, in their turn...but that's probably enough for now.
One of my favorite things is my P.O.W. bracelet; as a military brat during the Vietnam War, a lot of us wore them to show support for the P.O.W.'s. Mine is inscribed to "Maj. Robert Stirm 10-27-67" (he was promoted to Lt. Colonel). I kept it after he returned because the photo of him meeting his family won the 1974 Pulitzer Prize for Feature Photography; the photo by Slava Veder of Associated Press was titled Burst of Joy. I've worn it since then, and only had it off a few times for surgery over the years.
I have a decades-old afghan blanket assembled from granny squares in the pattern of a chess board; I can't actually play chess on it, as it's five squares by eight, but, as an avid chess player, my grandmother's gift was spot on.
I have two acoustic guitars, a fifty year old Gibson and a thirty year old Garcia (which may actually be a Japanese firewood knockoff, but it's the one I cared about so much that I gave it a name).
One historical artifact that I've kept since 1985 is a hardcopy transcript of the very first login session of the SMOF-BBS. I don't know if that's the kind of thing that a science fiction museum would be interested in, though; I may revisit that idea in 2010 (the 25th anniversary of the BBS).
these are the objects I need:
My camera: I'm a photographer by trade, but even if no one paid me, I couldn't give it up. The particular camera doesn't much matter, so much that I always have a functioning one. I always have at least a little point-and-shoot on me. I suppose my first SLR has a bit of sentimental value as well.
My laptop: vital if I want to get anything out of the first.
A pair of hard drives: One for my music collection, and one for my photo archives. It amazes me that what used to be a roomful of CDs and a (short) career's work can fit on two objects the size of a brick. In a fire, these would be the first inanimate objects I'd go for, since all the rest can be easily replaced.
My most precious things are friendships.
* My bo - six feet of perfect Osage Orange wood, custom-made for me. It looks like a toothpick bo, weighs like a real weapon - plus beautiful and with an absolute satin finish. It's the only karate gear I own that's not cheap student crap.
* My wedding ring. I love tri-color jewelry, and after my old wedding ring had to be cut off, my husband hunted high and low in secret to find the perfect ring - a plain band with rings of rose gold, white gold and yellow, in satin finish, separated by thin shiny grooves. I have no idea where he found it, and I love it utterly.
*My cuff bracelet - another tri-color jewelry present from my husband - a silver cuff with a howling wolf in rose gold.
*My piano -though as much as I love it, I may not keep this one. It was my grandfather's piano, a Steinway living room grand (Model L). It's a far better piano than I could afford - but also somewhat better than I can afford to take care of the way it deserves to be. Plus, in all honesty, Steinways in general and this piano in particular, don't fit my playing terribly well. So I'm at least considering letting my piano pass to someone who can love and care for it as it deserves, and getting myself something smaller with a lighter action.
I'm an irredeemable packrat: books, fabric, yarn, anime, manga... Yeah, I like to collect things. Strangely enough, the things that I *value* I didn't even take with me to college, they stayed in my bedroom at home, waiting for me to come back.
1. My Bub-bub (yiddish for grandmother) made myself and my sister matching bedsit dolls - you know, the plastic dolls with the crochet dress, petticoat and apron? The way to tell the difference is our initials on the apron. I liked it growing up, but it was only in the last year it has meant even more to me: I found the pattern she used, and decided to make one for a second cousin my family dotes on. Spending the time making hers... I realize what time my grandmother spent on mine. As she died nearly two decades ago, I can't tell her that... but I hope she knows anyway.
2. My senior prom dress. The two piece, bodice with boning and a full skirt, style was big when I was a senior, and I very much liked it. Unfortunately, while we (my mother and I) could find dresses that fit... they were in colors that I both hated and thought I looked horrible in. My mother had me find fabric I did like - ice blue and a transparent darker blue fabric that had silvery dots on it - and made me the dress I wanted. I love that dress, and if I ever lose enough weight, it would still fit. I still thank her for it, and remember how I felt beautiful in it.
#56
Oh yeah.
My pillow - travel sized and filled with something unidentifiable (except as not feathers), acquired too long ago for me to remember.
I'm another military brat, and we always lost stuff each move. Heirlooms, from my side of the family at least, are a bit short around our place.
There are two exceptions -- our wedding rings. I was a reporter when we married, which meant that I was chrnically broke. My wife to be still had her mother's ring, which she wanted to use and which solved that problem. My father had been dead a couple of years at that point and my mother surpised me with his ring. He had died a few weeks after their 25th anniversary, and Marilee and I will be married 29 years this coming December.
Sometimes I just take it off, look at it for a while, and think of the half century or so it represents in my family. There really isn't much else left.
The cats, of course.
I have some family things I've liberated (and have passed some on to my brother, who, at 50, decided family history was interesting), but the things that delight me are the cats and my cell phone. I have really small hands and I have a very small phone that fits perfectly. Fits in my pocket well, too.
A polaroid photo of my mother and father holding me when I was a few months old. Mom's wearing cool catseye framed glasses. Dad looks tired, but happy. I'm laughing for all my small self was worth.
My pins. I look for them when I'm traveling to remember where I've been, and wear them on my fleece jacket, or attach them to my pack. Japan was great for that. I could buy pins for a 100 yen coin from vending machines.
A big piece of rose quartz given to me by a woman I was smitten with back in graduate school.
The little steampunk robot avatar that is my "work wardrobe" in Second Life. It's become iconic. Though some residents have accused me of looking at small appliances with a lustful eye.
Oh, three physical things...
(1) A cheaply made tiny flag that a fellow carpooler gave me when I became an American in 1994.
(2) A dog-eared and worn-out B&W photo of the 2-year-old me with my parents that, unbeknownt to me, my dad had been keeping in his wallet, and which my mom gave me when he died in 1993.
(3) A card of Lucy van Pelt as a mermaid that my wife-to-be gave me on my 30th birthday, in 1985.
I guess I'd want the Spanish acoustic guitar, since it's the one I played most. I've even thought of selling the six-string electric Rickenbacker, so obviously it's not as highly valued.
A couple of family photos, fortuitously arranged on the table next to the door I'd be liable to exit from in case of emergency.
Nothing else is particularly irreplaceable or holds any sentimental attachment for me.
- A knife. Not the cheap Chinese kitchen knife which is my weapon of choice in the kitchen but one of an unmatched pair my partner & I made* while holidaying in the South Island of New Zealand. They are mementos of a great experience.
- A much read copy of Tolkien's LoTR. It was a seminal influence on me as a reader.
- Memories: of great meals, wines, of good times with friends and family, and of thrilling, memorable, enjoyable experiences.
*Closer to the truth to say that I was involved in its manufacture. The people who ran the workshop did all the work making sure that the end product turned out good.
I have a brass good-luck necklace my husband's mother wore when she was a little girl. She never learned enough English nor I enough Chinese that we could have a conversation, but she always said I was her favourite daughter-in-law (I suppose because I never argued with her!).
A small green copy of "Daily Light on the Daily Path" is inscribed to my mother in March, 1933, when she was a teenager. In her grandmother's handwriting, it says, "In memory of a happy visit." When I was in grade seven, in a effort to improve my atrocious handwriting, my teacher required me to do a page of practice writing every single day. I copied texts out of this little book all year long. It didn't do much for my handwriting, I'm afraid, but it did fill my head with magnificent cadences: "O God, thou knowest my foolishness; and my sins are not hid from thee.---Teach me to do thy will; for thou art my God.---Lead me, O Lord, in thy righteousness, make thy way straight before my face.---My times are in thy hands." I'm not a believer any more, but this little book is still a comfort.
Memories can be attached to the oddest things. There's a sturdy spring-loaded wooden toilet roll spindle in our bathroom now, black when it was new, but the paint has worn to show the wood underneath. The builder installed it when my parents' house was built in 1951, and it has seen uninterrupted duty ever since. It is still doing the job it was designed to do, humbly, competently, without any slippage or rattle or fuss like the cheap chrome bars sold today. It will outlast me -- and my grandchildren too, if someone doesn't carelessly throw it into a city dump.
I like all of these things because, well... I guess the common thread is: continuity.
I relocated from Cambridge MA to Seattle for a year, and I decided to move the bare minimum of stuff (I rented my Cambridge apartment furnished). I learned that, much as I love my art and book collection dearly, what I decided that I couldn't live without for a year was based strictly on function. Only the two cats serve no (apparent) purpose; other than the art, they're also almost the only 'things' I own that aren't fungible. Of course, they are also the only 'belongings' that I am guaranteed to lose eventually (they're getting rather elderly). Many moves, starting as child, must have trained me to value experiences more than objects; I imagine it's why I decided to live on the other side of the country for a year, but in an almost ascetically bare apartment. Don't get me wrong; I love my stuff. But whatever the pack-rat gene is, I definitely don't have it.
For whatever reason, I don't get all that attached to things. I could name three, though:
1) My CPAP machine. Because I can still remember being in a state where I'd forgotten how it felt to be rested, and I don't want to go back there.
2) My ceramic bowl, made by Jon Singer, with the secret writing in it. The interior is white, but under ultraviolet light it has an Angerthas G-rune that fluoresces. Jo Walton encouraged me to buy it at a Minicon art show, because my name starts with G. It lives on my desk, and I keep my small collection of coins in it. (These are silver coins I've gotten out of the register at work -- mostly dimes, but a couple of quarters; one 1945 Mercury dime; plus one 1943 steel penny, and the 1948 farthing coin that was a souvenir of the second Farthing Party.)
3) My Green Lantern ring made of silver, set with a lab emerald.
I have a backpack that I'm attached to (and is frequently attached to me). I don't drive; I bicycle most places I need to get to, and the backpack is how I carry most things (I joke that it is the trunk of my car).
I think I've had this particular pack for about 15 years; it is the fourth pack I've had. I picked it up at a second hand shop for about $15. The interior had some sort of rubberized coating that was supposed to waterproof it; the first time I was caught in a downpour I found that it didn't keep water out, but kept it in (collected a few pounds of water, and ruined a roll of stamps I had just bought). I added some grommets to the bottom to act as drain holes, and started using a large plastic trash bag inside the pack to truly protect the cargo.
The pack has a flap with cords designed to be tied off; I added a couple of reflectors (useful feature for bike riding) that the cord could be wrapped around, and attached clips to the ends of the cords so the loose ends could fastened to the frame.
I have a rear-view mirror contrivance made from an old Volkswagen rear-view mirror attached to an arm made out of electrical conduit, which can pivot over my left shoulder when I am cycling (and pivots back to take less space when I don't need it — or can be detached entirely). It was originally designed one backpack ago, but the latest incarnation could be attached to any other frame backpack very easily (loosen some hose clamps, attach to new frame). I am so used to using it that I joke I feel undressed riding without it.
I have already been doing some patching and stitching to stave off wear; have a ways to go before it is as worn as the pack it replaced.
Answering, before reading, to keep my list from my own mind.
1. My beat up black leather trench-coat. It's about 50% unwearable now, from having been so beat up (and I am having trouble finding people willing to repair/replace/renew shredded nylon interiors to leather goods). Not only is it the single most expensive lone garment I own (combining both of the garments of my tuxedo were marginally more expensive than the coat) but I've practically lived in that coat. I travelled Europe with that coat (and overstuffed the pockets on a regular basis, which is why they aren't pockets anymore). That coat kept me warm when I spent the night in Himeji station during a poorly planned Japan visit. That coat... I had more than a year before the release of The Matrix, which defense is still worthless in deflecting accusations of copying The Matrix when I'm wearing my wrap-around sunglasses.
2. CD collection. I suppose, to a certain line of thinking, it's actually like... 1000 objects. But any one of them wouldn't make the list. It would be relatively easy to replace. The bunch all together though... well... there's the price, but also the knowledge that I'd never put it back together again. There are CDs in that collection that I doubt I'd ever convince myself to spend money on again, but I retain because they (properly speaking: the music on them) were such a part of my life, that discarding, losing, or selling them would be like denying my own past.
3. Hmm, no... I guess that's it. Everything else is not just ultimately replaceable, but almost all of the rest is expected to be replaced not so long from now.
A few photographs, a few of my books (I realised, thinking about this question, that I've had my copy of Plato's Republic since I was eighteen, and a couple of anthologies of poetry even longer, and they've gone everywhere with me). But people, in the end, matter more than things.
Tangentially related (in that words are a favourite thing for everyone, right?)is this BBC list of
Defenestrate is there, of course, but also a number of words that I had never heard of before but now adore.
Obviously a Brit bias, as can be seen by number 20:
If you ever fly into the US, then one of the questions you're asked on the entry form you have to fill in is "Have you ever been convicted of moral turpitude?" What a great word turpitude is! I've never heard it anywhere else, but I can guess what it means and that the required answer is "NO". Just the sound of it is faintly dubious, once you've realised that it's not something you use to clean your paint brushes with.
Wikipedia has rather a wonderful list of offences not involving moral turpitude, and which are thus OK:
* Damaging private property (where intent to damage not required)
* Breaking and entering (requiring no specific or implicit intent to commit a crime involving moral turpitude)
* Passing bad checks (where intent to defraud not required)
* Possessing stolen property (if guilty knowledge is not essential)
* Joy riding (where the intention to take permanently not required)
* Juvenile delinquency
* Trespassing
* Black market violations
* Breach of the peace
* Carrying a concealed weapon
* Desertion from the Armed Forces
* Disorderly conduct
* Drunk or reckless driving
* Driving while license suspended or revoked
* Drunkenness
* Escape from prison
* Failure to report for military induction
* False statements (not amounting to perjury or involving fraud)
* Firearm violations
* Gambling violations
* Immigration violations
* Liquor violations
* Loan sharking
* Lottery violations
* Minor traffic violations
* Possessing burglar tools (without intent to commit burglary)
* Smuggling and customs violations (where intent to commit fraud is absent)
* Tax evasion (without intent to defraud)
* Vagrancy
* Assault (simple) (i.e., any assault, which does not require an evil intent or depraved motive, although it may involve the use of a weapon, which is neither dangerous nor deadly)
* Bastardy (i.e., the offense of begetting a bastard child)
* Creating or maintaining a nuisance (where knowledge that premises were used for prostitution is not necessary)
* Fornication
* Incest (when a result of a marital status prohibited by law)
* Involuntary manslaughter (when killing is not the result of recklessness)
* Libel
* Mailing an obscene letter
* Mann Act violations (where coercion is not present)
* Riot
* Suicide (attempted)
...sounds like quite a weekend.
Mine are all baby-me related: a stuffed pig crocheted by my grandmother, a tiny t-shirt with 'Salut, j'suis Sylvie' on it that barely fits my hand now but that I'm assured I used to wear, the blanket I came home from the hospital in. Vindications that I was born, was loved, and have a purpose.
Everything else perished in the great dog vs. skunk fiasco of 2006. Nothing like having to throw out 75% of your stuff to teach you how little of it you needed in the first place.
I forgot, I meant to include my grandmother's small frying pan. She used it a lot, to make all kinds of nummy things. I have other cookware from her house too, but this one has the most emotional weight for me. Everytime I use it, I think of her.
I also have some sterling silver animals that my grandfather made for me, from my little plastic animals. I have my collection and my brother has his.
Ginger @ 80... She used it a lot, to make all kinds of nummy things.
It took me a moment to realize that your grabndmother wasn't using the pan for making mummy things. Thru trepanation?
I'm not sure I have any especially precious possessions. Many of the objects that would seem to be likely candidates have been in storage since I last moved, which was a while ago, and I appear to have survived without them so far. And while I have things that go everywhere with me and get used every day, like my PDA, it's not the things themselves that are important; if I lost the PDA, I would get a new one and move on.
On the other hand... when I was doing the washing up last week, I realised that one of the bowls had a crack in it. It's one of a set where each bowl has a different floral pattern, and that particular bowl has been My Bowl since I was very young. I've put it carefully aside until I can decide what to do with it; it's not the kind of photogenic bowl one can display on a stand on the mantelpiece, even if I was a display-things-on-stands kind of person and even if I had a mantelpiece, but I find that we've come too far together for me to want to part ways now.
I have a lot of stuff, I'm pack-ratty. But I don't think there's any single item that I'd risk my life to save from a fire. If I had to run away, I'd pack practical essentials, nothing of sentimental value. I don't own any tools because I don't make anything; it's one of the things I most dislike about myself, but I'm not creative at all. Such heirlooms as we have are in my parents' house, they never make it as far as any of the temporary digs where I've lived since leaving home.
Possible candidates are a pocket-sized photo album with a few of my favourite shots from my teens (including a photo of my first ever electrophoretic gel), and a Frodo miniature that the love of my life painted for me. I have a teak apple full of trinkets with histories, so I might take that, just because everything is together and it's easy to grab.
Not so much a single object, but a category - I love having a telescope. My first one was big Dob, you needed a step stool to look in the eyepiece. The first time my grandfather, who was very reserved and somewhat old fashioned, looked at the Orion nebula through it he said "Holy shit!" and fell off the stool. I've owned various telescopes for years now, and I still get a "Holy shit!" feeling every time I observe.
I also love my plants. Again its not a particular plant I love, but the having of plants. I'm particularly fond of the edible ones, but don't tell that to the blue irises. If I ever get lots of money, one of the first things I'd buy is a house on enough land to start a small orchard. (Hmm, not only is this another category rather than a specific object, its becoming a category I'd like at some point in the future to be precious to me... Better quit while I'm ahead.)
I love this kind of post. Thanks, Abi.
My most prized possession is the quilt my maternal grandmother made for me. It's on my bed because I don't believe it hiding it away where it can't be seen. She made things to be used, so I use it.
Next comes the print of "Nighthawks" by Hopper. I'm a morning bird by nature, but after a stint of doing a graveyard shift in a 24 hour truckstop back in college, the work speaks volumes to me.
Finally, I carry the backups of my writing and digital photography with me wherever I go.
Serge (61):
My most precious things are friendships.
But Serge, you have to list the top three!
[I see great social turmoil in your near future. HehHeh]
Rikibeth @ #10, OHHHH! I grew up with an old decrepit set of "My Book House"! I can still see (and smell) them. What great memories.
Ginger @#40, I share your feelings about hot tea, to the extent that if civilization should collapse, I would make my way on foot to the Charleston Tea Plantation and steal cuttings. I would also try to steal from the UGA library the old USDA bulletins (early 1900s) that explain the planting, culture, and home processing of tea.
Handdrummer @ #44, everyone should have such a grandfather.
That my house contains 4 people, 4 cats and 4 dogs means that in any emergency I'd be unable to save any material possessions (if I had time, I'd grab water and dog and cat food. If I only had a little time, I'd grab the allergy food for the elderly dachshund with the multiple food allergies). But the things I'd miss most include the computers, which have all our fiction-in-progress on them, and the thoughtful and specific handwritten postcard Ursula LeGuin sent me in response to a fan letter. I have a lot of unusual clothes I love, but I'm always finding more, so that's okay.
I also have a copy of Doctor Dolittle that my sister gave me when I was small. I could already read by then, but she must have read me the whole book at some point, because now when I read or even hold that particular copy, I hear her voice. I'd miss that, even though she lives nearby and I see her fairly often.
I have a bookshelf made for my by my father. It isn't priceless because he's gone (he's not, and heaven forbid), but because it was the first piece of "real" furniture I had as a grownup. I terrified someone dur
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