So remember when I said I was going to have more fun? I’ve spent the last two weeks knee-deep in an overwrought screed. I mean, it’s been fun to write, but I’m still trying to tone it down a bit. That’s not right. I mean to say I’m trying to make it flow better and I’m having trouble because I’m just saying the points, not connecting them.
Give it another couple of days and it’ll be OK. I’m just futzing with the conclusion (which won’t agree to follow from the premise, no matter how many clever turns of phrase I employ).
So, while I try and beat some sense into this week’s scheduled high-handed essay, here’s a notebook dump on Junk Shopping:
In my little notebook, I’ve written, “Someone related to me was really into Elvis. Now they’re dead.”
If I could be said to have a hobby, it’s junk shopping. I almost never buy anything, though I’m often tempted. The thing is, “antique” stores put consumerism into relief for me. The garbage bags full of Beanie Babies and mangy piles of Tickle-Me-Elmos and Cabbage Patch Kids remind me that wanting is so often much more pleasurable than having.
As I make the circuit of indoor flea markets and antique malls, I’m just interested in the stories. Who thought this stuff was worth buying? and then who thought it was worth selling? And what was wrapped up in those decisions, if anything at all?
The day I became a mechanical pencil collector (and owner of a swell hat) is a different story, that I’ll tell at a different time, but it’s set in Adamstown, Pennsylvania, purportedly the largest antique destination in Christendom. Sure that means lots of junk to look at, but it also means so, so many people whose lives are wrapped up in dealing junk. It must be such a specific lifestyle.
The largest of these was a wonderland of treasure and desperation. Some booths had well-curated collections, bits and bobs on a theme. Others were clearly stocked by smash-and-grab adventures at regional Goodwills.
For me, the takeaway tableau was a too-skinny, visibly put-out woman in her late 30s or so. Her dead brown sweater wasn’t baggy so much as ill-fitting and before her she pushed a cart piled high with plastic tubs containing Hummel figurines. She was addressing a resolute, not unsympathetic Western Pennsylvanian gentleman, balding and gray swept, wearing thick metal glasses perched above a street-broom mustache. His face was a little red.
“If I make you an offer, it’s going to hurt your feelings,” he told the woman. “I know these things are considered collectible, but they don’t really sell.”
I was passing by and didn’t dawdle to hear the outcome, but the woman carried herself like someone who would rather do anything else than lug this inherited treasure back whence it came.
The dealer wasn’t much different. His face said he might not take them for free, such would be the hassle in transport and storage.
I imagine the woman, though, as a girl being constantly scolded to stay away from the figurines, how they were expensive and valuable. And they were, in proportion. I think of her almost any time I see a Hummel collection in a junk shop.
I thought of her more recently when I saw a shrine to a life committed to Elvis. That is, a life that clearly became indistinguishable from its devotion to all things cheap and Elvis.
I’m not knocking what people collect. I know people who, if it has a Coca-Cola logo on it, they need to have it. But one thing both of these types of collectors have in common is they’re going to die and someone is going to have to deal with their treasures.
“Treasures” is the operative word, I guess. People left with the impression that whatever their ancestor collected is too valuable to trash but not worth storing have a problem to solve.
Hence, we get poseable pope dolls and so, so much pop culture detritus. It’s like walking through the landfill of the future (with fewer rats). Still, I find hope in the apparently infinitely recyclable. In someone who has the vision to say, “Someone else can use this” and sell a gross of empty oyster cans right next to a “found” stop sign.
For me, though, it’s about the stories and nostalgia. Also, the people watching.
Apropo of nothing (probably): I read an obituary recently where the primary thing about the deceased (beyond their relations) was that they liked purple.
And that is all I could wring out of the sentences in my notebook.
Keep the Faith,
Tony
In Other News…
I’ve added the next section to my “Return to Sender” thing. I found Peter Lorre’s former address and sent the current owners a note.
Funeral Stuff
If you haven’t heard of a death doula, I’ll bet you do in the next few weeks. It’s one of those old/emerging professions that all of a sudden goes from nowhere to everywhere. They’re a person who helps people at the time of death, philosophically, I guess.
They explain to the dying and to the family what will happen and sometimes aid them in making final preparations. It’s a little crunchy, but (especially for people without a minister or “recognized” faith) it’s good to have a guide.
I recently spoke with a funeral director who also is a doula (and a ton of other stuff). I’m fascinated with the idea that there’s a future where the funeral director is part of the dying process. Increasingly doulas are becoming funeral directors and vice-versa. We talk about that in this week’s podcast episode.
Anyway, it’s a pretty good episode, and I think you might like it.
Other than that, I’d like to make another pitch for using Substack as a social media outlet. As I write this, President Biden has announced he won’t seek re-election. There are some stories and commentary on Substack, but there’s also OTHER STUFF (like this goofy thing I just wrote).
I can’t tell you how pleasant it is not to have to worry about opening a social app when everyone with fingers is opining and not worry about being drowned.
Liked purple. What a shame. Nobody deserves to be remembered by that summary. Who would write that about a friend or family member? An obituary might be their final mention and should end with more fanfare, especially if there is nothing else to describe the deceased. Embellish truth, get creative, inspire in their name! The authors lack of eloquence suggests that nobody would write a complaint about it anyway, so have fun and lie on their behalf. For example:
She lived like she died, clutching a swathe of the finest royal velvet ripped right off of a Prince’s cape. She was the stalwart founder and leader of the Peoples United Regiment Promoting Lovely Everlasting Purple for Everyone Everywhere. Her trademark violet lipstick became the scourge of housewives when found on the collared shirts of international businessmen. She was the sole reason Grape Nehi is still being manufactured. In the empire of visual senses, no blend of red and blue could escape her passionate gaze. A memorial mulberry tree will be planted in the town square, adjacent to the lavender beds where she picnicked with bottles of Pinot Noir. May she forever rest in peace and in purple.