As a lifelong gypsy, I have moved more times than I can count on my hands and toes. Wait, let me check. No, it seems I can indeed do this, but I have no toes, fingers or thumbs left.
Each time I pack up to move somewhere else, whether it’s voluntarily or someone is kicking me out, I think back to George Carlin’s routine about “stuff.” He talks about how we need to build bigger houses for our stuff, and when we run out there we rent storage units. But really, all the stuff we really need, the stuff we take everywhere with us, fits into our back pocket. A wallet is all the stuff we absolutely need, and perhaps a pair of pants to put it in.
As I was chatting about this with a friend, it occurred to me that I have a bit of Jacob Marley in me. For those of you who didn’t bother to read A Christmas Carol, he’s the guy who is towing along all those chains and chests behind him… as Marley puts it, the chains he “forged in life. I made it, link by link and yard by yard.”
I have a somewhat odd attachment to certain stuff. They are the chains that follow me everywhere. And while a lot of people place a big attachment on things like a sofa, TV or favorite jewelry, mine seem to be memories, minutia and oddities that would mean nothing to another soul.
Case in point. I still have my Best Photographer and Best Journalist award plaques from community college. I have a good work slip from my high school Spanish teacher along and as you’ve seen here, at least one marching show I wrote. I have my driver’s education certificate from when I was 16 along with my certificate for my first parachute jump.
I have left behind things of seemingly far more value to others. Two wonderful drill presses have been left behind in two different relationships, a really cool remote control pirate ship, the treasure chest that Bobby built for me, assorted clothing, accoutrements, decor and other things that simply wouldn’t fit in a moving van or mini van at the time.
They probably could have, if I didn’t have all these other chains packed in there first. For some reason, I continue to take the memories of days long past with me wherever I go. I only realized this when I was talking about shooting photos this morning. I have all the contact sheets and negatives from the photos I took 32 years ago in community college, including the very first shots I ever shot with a real 35 mm camera. Not sure why I have them, except perhaps to send them to my old school mates now and again for a nostalgic laugh.
I also have three large boxes of model parts for the L’Egg models I still build. There a period of time – 10 years to be exact, when I built not a one. Yet they are some of the first things I pack when I move. They came all the way to Florida with me in my mini van. They are in the other room now, taking up an entire corner of the guest room.
In my dresser drawer, I still have a collection of Seafair Pirate pins that my friend Bobby gave me. They sit atop my diplomas, all three of them. No one has ever asked to see my sheepskins, ever. Yet I carry them along. They are next to the RobZerrvations I wrote in college. Yes, I still have them. They have faded a bit with time, written on a then state-of-the-art Selectric typewriter.
I also have a box of GI Joes… the original ones. Not worth a thing because they have been played with very hard and have fallen out of a few airplanes. They’ve had so many adventures that they look a little worn and torn. I also have the parachutes I designed for them when I was 14. They still work and one of the Joes is bound to “accidentally” fall from the condo here.
In the office, I still have the very first thing I ever wrote for Mrs. Hacker in journalism, complete with all the red marks she made. I wasn’t very good back then. It is a humble reminder of how my career began. It also helps me remember the person who played a large part in making me the writer I am today, hating nearly every RobZerrvation I ever wrote back then.
Of course, I still have lots of photos. I am slowly trying to get rid of that box, preferring to scan them all instead. It is on my ‘to do’ list. I also have all my high school and middle school yearbooks. I know people who have never moved in 30 years that can’t find theirs. Mine are in the bookcase in the living room.
Perhaps that’s one of the beauties of being a bit of a gypsy. Every time I move or am forced to move, I have to pack all these things up. And when I arrive at the next destination, whether it’s cross town or cross country, all these things come back out of their boxes. They have to be pretty special to make my “cut” list.
As I’m sitting here writing this, I see the sand out of the corner of my eye. No, not out on the beach. It’s a circular container under my iMac. In it is sand from Tahiti, Roatan, Half Moon Bay, Cozumel, Maui and Cayman. I have others somewhere. I used to always dip a film canister into the sand anywhere I visited. Whenever I want to return, I can, just by removing the lid on this and touching paradise.
I suppose a lot of people would just throw these things away when then move, or donate them to a thrift store. For me, these are the chains I carry, the ones I forged in life, link by link, chain by chain.
Unlike Marley though, I don’t moan about having to continually carry them around this earth. They remind me of where I came from and most important, who I am.
Out on the Treasure Coast, sticking my fingers into the sands of time,
– Robb