I've never been one to collect things, to save out artifacts from my life. Those memories that I carry about in my heart seem both sufficiently light and sufficiently heavy without needing to occupy actual space. But there have been a few physical objects that I found myself, for some reason, especially fond of over the years.
One was a cigarette lighter that belonged to my father when he was in the Navy. It was one of those old style flip-top lighters with cotton inside to soak up the fuel. It was silver and had a picture of a trout on the side along with my father's initials, and it made a pleasant 'clink' when you flipped open the top. I don't know what happened to that lighter. It disappeared somewhere around the turn of the century--either lost or stolen. Smoking has never been quite the same without it.
For quite a long while, during the '90s, I carried an Indian Head nickel in my pocket along with my other change, being careful never to spend the nickel. I just liked it, because of course it had long since been out of circulation and it reminded me of my childhood (when a nickel would buy a Baby Ruth bar). I had received the nickel from a cashier at a Fred Meyers store and just felt lucky, as if she had accidentally returned a piece of my past. Unfortunately, my daughter and her friend later spent this lucky nickel as if it had been any other nickel in the world, and that was that.
In the drawer of the small table I use to type on, I have a photo of my parents and a photo of my brother. There is also a small spiral notebook containing chapter-by-chapter notes made by my first wife on a book I wrote. I've read neither the book nor the notes in some years, so I don't know why I still have this.
Of the stories I wrote that were published, I still have a few, and I still have one copy of the children's novel I published back in '91, though I've not read any of these in a long time, either. Perhaps I have kept the book as a reminder of how very badly a major publishing house can botch the art on a book jacket.
I have no photo albums. I have no old love letters. (Or did I ever receive any love letters? I don't know). I have no knick-knacks or baubles or picture frames or pocket knives or awards or trophies or diplomas or whatever other artifacts there may have been.
I travel lightly even as I stay in one place.
But here's something interesting. I happened to be watching an old interview with the author Shelby Foote (notable mainly for his three volume history of the Civil War) regarding in the main his friendship with fellow writer and contemporary Walker Percy (notable for a handful of novels and two collections of philosophical essays). As I watched this interview, I suddenly remembered that Walker Percy had once written me a short note on the back of a blank postcard. He had replied to my appreciative response to one or another of his fiction titles. I thought, huh, why didn't I keep that note from this well-respected, now deceased writer? And then I realized that I had. Yes, there it was, in the little drawer of the table I use to type on. Here was an artifact I had brought along, having been in my possession since somewhere in the 1980s--just something I wanted to have vaguely at hand, like the cigarette lighter with the trout on it, like the Indian Head nickel. Walker Percy's writings meant a lot to me during that time, during the '80s, and I have retained in my mind an essence of what I so admired, such that I will still occasionally find myself explaining a point by referring back to something Percy wrote.
I have posted a photo of the note below; but, given Percy's hieroglyphic style of handwriting, I will type just here what he said:
Thank you for your kind (and understanding) words. I would be pleased to think that my better words performed what SR would call an "esthetic reversal" on depression and despair.
[SR: Soren Kierkegaard]
So, I thank you, Mr. Percy. This meant a lot to me time; and I've brought it along through all these years.
One was a cigarette lighter that belonged to my father when he was in the Navy. It was one of those old style flip-top lighters with cotton inside to soak up the fuel. It was silver and had a picture of a trout on the side along with my father's initials, and it made a pleasant 'clink' when you flipped open the top. I don't know what happened to that lighter. It disappeared somewhere around the turn of the century--either lost or stolen. Smoking has never been quite the same without it.
For quite a long while, during the '90s, I carried an Indian Head nickel in my pocket along with my other change, being careful never to spend the nickel. I just liked it, because of course it had long since been out of circulation and it reminded me of my childhood (when a nickel would buy a Baby Ruth bar). I had received the nickel from a cashier at a Fred Meyers store and just felt lucky, as if she had accidentally returned a piece of my past. Unfortunately, my daughter and her friend later spent this lucky nickel as if it had been any other nickel in the world, and that was that.
In the drawer of the small table I use to type on, I have a photo of my parents and a photo of my brother. There is also a small spiral notebook containing chapter-by-chapter notes made by my first wife on a book I wrote. I've read neither the book nor the notes in some years, so I don't know why I still have this.
Of the stories I wrote that were published, I still have a few, and I still have one copy of the children's novel I published back in '91, though I've not read any of these in a long time, either. Perhaps I have kept the book as a reminder of how very badly a major publishing house can botch the art on a book jacket.
I have no photo albums. I have no old love letters. (Or did I ever receive any love letters? I don't know). I have no knick-knacks or baubles or picture frames or pocket knives or awards or trophies or diplomas or whatever other artifacts there may have been.
I travel lightly even as I stay in one place.
But here's something interesting. I happened to be watching an old interview with the author Shelby Foote (notable mainly for his three volume history of the Civil War) regarding in the main his friendship with fellow writer and contemporary Walker Percy (notable for a handful of novels and two collections of philosophical essays). As I watched this interview, I suddenly remembered that Walker Percy had once written me a short note on the back of a blank postcard. He had replied to my appreciative response to one or another of his fiction titles. I thought, huh, why didn't I keep that note from this well-respected, now deceased writer? And then I realized that I had. Yes, there it was, in the little drawer of the table I use to type on. Here was an artifact I had brought along, having been in my possession since somewhere in the 1980s--just something I wanted to have vaguely at hand, like the cigarette lighter with the trout on it, like the Indian Head nickel. Walker Percy's writings meant a lot to me during that time, during the '80s, and I have retained in my mind an essence of what I so admired, such that I will still occasionally find myself explaining a point by referring back to something Percy wrote.
I have posted a photo of the note below; but, given Percy's hieroglyphic style of handwriting, I will type just here what he said:
Thank you for your kind (and understanding) words. I would be pleased to think that my better words performed what SR would call an "esthetic reversal" on depression and despair.
[SR: Soren Kierkegaard]
So, I thank you, Mr. Percy. This meant a lot to me time; and I've brought it along through all these years.
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