I am a proud and self-proclaimed nomad, always in search of fresh pastures. I can pack up my essentials and be on my way in less than five minutes. A relative once said that it’s easy for me to be a nomad because I don’t really have anything. But in my eyes, I have everything any modern nomad could need. A 9 1/2 foot 6 weight St. Croix rod, a new laptop, a car and a GPS. Oh yes, some clothes and some personal hygiene products. But while my Buick camel and I can easily travel anywhere in a moment, I have a collection of memorabilia stored in the basements of my happily divorced parents. I’ve never watched the TV shows “Hoarders” or “Intervention,” but one of my family members might one day nominate me to star in an upcoming episode of both.
Now remember, after reading this, you’ll think to yourself, “he couldn’t have invented those things.”
I gave away my Taiwanese woman breast shape wooden massage tool and Iranian battle ax replica and chain mail helmet. Surely it would be foolish to have things like that lying around for no reason. I only keep important junk, things worthy of valuable storage space.
While looking for a hammer the other day, I came across my copy of an “acknowledgment of registration” from the Selective Service System. You never know, 35 years later, when your status as a military recruit might come up during a job interview. Along with this document are test results that revealed what career he might succeed in in the near future. “You should consider ‘Truck Driver’.” Damn, that’s where I went wrong in life! Stupid restaurants. My DAT (Differential Aptitude Test) test results actually seem a bit more on point. Abstract Reasoning and Verbal Reasoning-in the 95th percentile. Spatial Relations-30%. I can figure it out myself, but don’t get too close. This is how I read it.
In a treasure box are my teddy bears that I played with as a child. Smokey and JoJo. Don’t tell them if you see them, but they look worse than me after all these years. Now the name “Smokey”, I get it. smokey the bear Belt, cap, badge and all. Goal Jo Jo? Inspired by Jo Jo White/Boston Celtics point guard? He hadn’t even been drafted in the NBA at this point. Who knows.
There are lots and lots of elementary school valentines. There were no transgender cards available back then. Everyone gave everyone a card. “Be my Valentine, signed Ralph.” I don’t want to be a homophobe, Ralph, but I still have suspicious eyes on you, even after 45 years. As I matured, so did the cards. I saved lots of letters and cards from the first love of my life. And the second. And a couple of a younger girl who promised me all kinds of immoral acts. I didn’t really like it, but it was a good read. And what a romantic little shit I was as a teenager. I wrote a poem for my first love who dreamed of living in a cave in Bolivia. “Give me a blonde and a bottle of rum and everything will be fine.” Nice try, but it didn’t work.
For some reason, I have several report cards from my mother’s elementary school. It was probably a leverage/trade tool back in the days when I was bringing home my own less than stellar grades from high school. A quick scan of my college transcripts shows surprising success in chemistry and biology classes (thank you, Mrs. Bauserman), but complete disinterest in electives like 16th-century music. Heck, in my defense, you had to WALK to the library to hear rocker Hans Neusidler and the orchestra without his electric guitars.
Grandpa Knode was a Freemason. Thomas Jefferson, George Washington and Grandpa. Along with his embossed certificate of membership in the secret chapter of the District of Columbia, I have kept his Masonic apron and his bylaw book forever.
Grandma Knode worked as a secretary for Senator Millard Tydings. The senator gave him a monogrammed wooden box that sat on his desk as a token of thanks after he left office in 1950. That wooden box now sits in my mom’s basement and contains a recipe written by my Aunt B. The recipe is from Grandma Knode for “24 Hour Salad” which is now a traditional dish served annually at our family’s Thanksgiving meals.
Grandpa Lambert worked during a period of time when a man’s word and a handshake meant more than any written contract. A receipt I have, handwritten in the 1940s, was probably given to him as a monthly reminder by a local service station; Ice and gas in bags for the outrageous total of $3.10. Obvious price increase. There are some birthday cards from Grandpa and Grandma Lambert. And several birthday cards from my Aunt Dot. On her way to family sainthood status, religiously every year, Aunt Dot sent birthday cards, each containing a five-dollar bill, to me, my two sisters, and our 23 cousins. Each and every year, no matter where you lived. “How did she know I was in Savannah for three months this year?” Even if you didn’t remember it was your birthday, you did after checking your mailbox.
There’s an issue of The Weekly World News, the now-defunct mostly fictional tabloid news publication that I always found hilarious. My girlfriend at the time had out-traveled me by moving out of our house while I was away at work. She later left this edit as some kind of weird peace offering, knowing that I found the sarcasm very funny. “Redneck Aliens Takeover Trailer Park” The image of a husband and wife, who had witnessed the invasion, was captioned stoically saying “There goes the neighborhood.” I think giving this gift had a doubly sarcastic message behind it. She was good at it.
Fishing has always been a big part of my life and the bases are dotted with all kinds of fishing relics. A 40 year old automatic fly reel that came mounted on my first fly rod is still rigged with the original fly line, forever cured with Shenandoah water. There’s an old wicker basket that Neil Armstrong gave me. Not the astronaut, silly. The UPS delivery man who was a bar buddy of mine years ago at The Boston Beanery. His uncle had passed away and he literally gave her the farm. Three ancient bamboo fly rods were discovered in the barn. “Well Neil, that’s all Montague rods, you might want to check their value.” A couple of weeks and a couple thousand dollars later, I received that basket of the basket as a referral fee. Safely secured in a roof rack my dad built are another half dozen fly rods. Because, you know, you can never have too many fishing rods.
If your phone number was (704) 637-4293 and your phone’s rotary dial is missing, I’ve got it. Call me.
I was almost a father once, but he died in the womb. Hidden in a box in the corner of the basement is a photo of Andrew, which was supposed to help with the grieving process. doesn’t work The image sits on top of a couple of self-help books that were given away, one of which is titled “The Dad-to-be.” I wish I had, but I never took the time to read those books.
My only younger sister had serious homesickness during her first summer camp experience. A letter she had sent from camp, addressed to me and my other sister, was written on the second day at Camp Strawderman. The now empty letter contained a single stick of gum. The letter read: “The gum is for Robin and Mary.”
I wonder if I ever paid this Dulles airport parking ticket? I had left my car unattended for two minutes near the main gates of the airport, while helping my Bulgarian friend Lucy with her luggage, in a hasty attempt to catch her 6 AM flight home. I guess since I have the ticket in hand, that’s not a good sign. Was not my car not how.
Then an ex-wife came to my house barking one day, accusing me of possessing a set of fine china that we had received as a wedding gift. I wholeheartedly denied any knowledge of the flowery pattern of coffee cups and plates, knowing full well the definition of a fifty/fifty split. She gets one hundred percent and I get zero. One afternoon years later, I was searching through my little mountain of memories for something ‘really’ important, when I found box after box full of old newspapers. The Fredericksburg Free Lance-Star to be exact. Well thanks fun, I used to live in Fredericksburg when I was married. Oh! I’d give that china set away for free, but it seems to make food taste sour. (But a little revenge tastes sweet) So in the basement he sits.
Before the days when OCD and ADD were invented, my childhood friend Stan and I would spend hours playing my electric soccer game. For the ignorant, electric soccer games were a small metal playing field that vibrated with an electric motor, which created the movement of the small plastic figures of soccer players. It was very loud and a lot of fun for a kid. But by being overly competitive, even at a young age, Stan and I took it to a whole new level of intensity. I have the spiral notebooks, full of plays and formations, that we wrote by hand and developed over time; we even kept detailed game statistics. Spiral notebooks, the still-functioning playing field, and six plastic bags filled with little players in official NFL team colors rest comfortably in the basement, along with brochures for Coach Lee’s new football playbook. which we received once a week before math class in my senior year of high school.
There’s the lucky yellow rabbit’s foot I wore in the belt loop of my Little League uniform. Several engraved leather bracelets and a San Cristóbal necklace. A Happy Turkey Day card, the image of the turkey created with the tiny watercolor-stained left hand of my goddaughter Rachel. An 8mm print of “I’m a Teenage Werewolf”. I must have missed Mr. Magoo’s.
Wait a minute, is that Zeppelin on the radio? Good times, bad times… You know I had my share…
