Decades
ago Dennis invited a colleague for lunch at our place in the country, the place
we call Paradise. Entering the house, the fellow, a collector of Navajo rugs
and other costly art, looked around and declared, “You don’t have anything
valuable here.”
Over
the ensuing years Dennis and I have enjoyed that remark and taken some twisted
pride in it. Our treasured possessions wouldn’t sell for a nickel at auction,
but we don’t care.
Who
would pay for a basket full of birds’ nests?
Who
would care to purchase a basket of shells collected on the Galveston beach
before oil spills and hurricanes destroyed most of its life forms?
Who
would want to own two skeletonized baby snakes that Oz found dead in our
basement? (Before the mites in my old glass-front bookcase ate all their flesh,
they clearly were a baby ring neck and a baby copperhead.)
Now
that I have realized that we have too much stuff, I’ve been looking at
everything in our house with a critical eye. Of what use or value are birds’
nests and seashells? Of what use are snake skeletons, one broken?
These
precious objects and their many companions are a history of our 40-plus years
in this beautiful place. They commemorate the years gone by. They are the
milestones of our rural lives together.
I
love and therefore value every relic. They are valuable to me and I can’t throw
them out. Oh, I know they have to return to the earth sometime, but please, not
just yet.
Copyright 2015 by Shirley Domer
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