Collections

Yesterday’s post reminded me of something from my grandparent’s old house.  They lived there for the first 32 years of my life.  I have a picture of my mom as a teenager, standing in front of that house.  The ‘For Sale’ sign is still stuck in the ground in the front yard. 

One of the two finest photos my grandpa ever took was taken there, possibly that same day.  In black and white, it shows the six oldest of their seven children.  My youngest aunt wasn’t even born yet.  My youngest uncle is toddling toward his photographer dad, while the other kids stand at varying distances from the camera.  The composition is astounding.

Years later, one of my cousins and I would playfully argue about the house and which of us would own it one day.  I always loved that house, but I think she would have won the fight. 

Turns out, someone else got there first.  It was sold to strangers. 

I mourned that house a long time.  I guess I still do. 

Sometimes I drive past it and take in a good long drink of the memories stored there for me.  The toys in the yard tell me a little about the family that lives there now.


My grandpa was a traveling salesman.  He spent much of his life on the road, away from his family and home.  I think a lot about him these days, away from my own family, calling on customers, sleeping in hotels far from home, and using little bars of soap. 

My grandpa collected the bars he didn’t use.  He brought them home and stored them near the bottled tomatoes and canned tuna fish.  There, in the basement, was a big, glass cookie jar, full – completely full – of bars of motel soap.