Deb

My father was a collector – and everything in his collection had a story.
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There was Uncle Joe’s coffee mug he got on his honeymoon; Great Aunt Mary’s creepy doll she clung to on the boat to America; Cousin Jerry’s wooden thing he built when he was ten. I would hang on his every word when he’d tell his stories but my favorite was always Grandpa Mike’s thermos.
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Grandpa Mike was a simple man. He came to America with eighteen dollars and twenty three cents in his pocket. He lied about his age to join the Army to fight for his new country. He worked all his life in the factory building the cars he could never afford. He packed his own lunch every day and every day was the same thing: sandwich, a piece of fruit, and of course, his thermos of Grandma Louise’s iced tea. His only pleasures in life were his family, his worn out recliner, and his smokes.
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He died of lung cancer when I was only three years old so I got to know him through my dad’s stories and his stuff my dad saved in his collection.
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When my dad died last year, I was going through the collection with my mom. We laughed and cried as we recounted each story that was attached to each item in the collection. Finally, my mother broke down in tears. She told me dad’s dirty little secret.
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My father was a collector, all right – of other people’s stuff.
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Nothing in his collection was what he said it was. Nothing had ever belonged to my varied ancestors. Nothing had the heartfelt meaning he attached through his stories. I was angry – I felt betrayed. I felt stupid for falling for his stupid stories.
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As I expressed my anger at the news, my mother seemed unmoved by my emotions. She continued to tell me the story of my dad’s collection.
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He would go to yard sales, junk shops, flea markets, even pick through people’s trash if he saw something salvageable towards the top. He had a hard and fast rule – he would never pay more than two dollars for any item.
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My mom hesitated for a minute, then told me the story of “Grandpa Mike’s thermos.” She was with him that day when they stopped at a yard sale. For some reason, dad gravitated toward the thermos. It was marked $7. My dad was a good negotiator but he couldn’t get the guy down below $4. He searched the tables and boxes that were strewn across the driveway, systematically examining each item and the marked price. He approached the proprietor with five items (including the thermos). He asked the man if he would take nine dollars for the lot to which the man agreed. My dad had managed to get the thermos for under two dollars – if only through averaging.
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While the things weren’t real, the stories were. He carefully chose other people’s stuff that related to his memories of the people who meant so much to him.
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My father was a collector – of stories – and I’m glad he passed them down to me.