Knick Knack

They watch your every move. From every corner and shelf. Elegant chalk figurines, native American storyteller dolls, fluffy stuffed bunnies with human outfits, cats of every type and description in frames, painted on stone, and stitched on pillows. There are primitive dolls with chipped faces and ragged clothing that sit on their perches and keep an unblinking eye on you. Walls are filled with framed reminders of trips with friends, watercolors of roses, clever sayings, portraits of us kids, paintings of fruit and ships, and favorite greeting cards. Valuable native American blankets and rugs hang on display and holiday decorations rotate as the seasons come and go. There is a beautiful green and gold Wurlitzer jukebox from the 40‘s that sits in the garage. It was in the tavern of the building my grandmother owned in SE Portland around the corner from her house. There is an original Hudson’s Bay blanket on my bed. Great-grandmother’s carnival glass candy dish sits in the cupboard along with items passed from generation to generation. The dresser in my bedroom is covered with glazed faces that stare at me with spooky expectation as I try to sleep. Do they want an informative monologue? Should I tell a dirty joke? Do they talk about me as I slumber? What the hell do they want?!

My mother is a collector. She just can’t seem to stop herself as she wanders the shops and markets. She’s gained a reputation among her friends so they give her more items to add to the collection on holidays and birthdays — and sometimes just for the hell of it. Mom mutters that she has to stop. Her kids hint that there are no more bare surfaces anywhere in her home. She is encouraged to get rid of it all and keep a few of her favorites. But inevitably something new will show up. Something she couldn’t resist. There is a connection and personal memory to each and every object lovingly obtained so selling a cherished item would be like selling one of her children.

The kitchen is not to be left out. The refrigerator is filled with random food stuffs tucked all the way to the back. It’s top is covered with bags of chips of every configuration freshly closed with clothes pins. Mom is the famous cookie queen of Troutdale. So plastic containers are filled on a regular basis with freshly baked old favorites or new experiments. Cupboards are stocked with supplies of chocolate chips and spices, crackers and jams, sugars and flours. Stacks of cookbooks are stuffed to bursting with cutout recipes. Shelves are loaded with dishes, mixing bowls, and measuring cups of every size, shape, and material. Whimsical teapots line the top of cupboards waiting for a party.

Mom grew up during the great depression on a farm in the remote Ohio countryside. She has told me a few times that for Christmas one year she was given a ball and an orange. So she was left wanting. Worrying about not having. She was a housewife and stay-at-home mom. My father really didn’t want or let her have a job — or have a driver’s license. She didn’t have money of her own or get out much. Collecting wasn’t an option when dad was alive although items would sneakily appear at random. After he died, though, the damn burst and she’s made up for lost shopping time ever since.

My sister sometimes asks me warily with panick in her voice what we will do when mom passes on. How will we deal with all the chotchkies that are literally everywhere. Not just out in the open but hidden in drawers, packed away in boxes, and stashed under beds. One car side of the two car garage is filled with furniture and boxed mementos. The task of sorting and passing it all on will be monumental.

I’ve discovered that being a collector is genetic. I keep an eye out for variations of the same item as I move through life. I have a few choice objects and have a weakness for beautiful ceramics, kitchen gadgets and cookware; ski clothes and shoes. But I think of my mother when I begin to get carried away and it stops me. What will I do with all that stuff? Do I really need it? I usually talk myself out of it and walk away before it’s too late. But a few things do slip through the cracks on occasion. I know, though, that some of mom’s collection will end up with me. It’s already happening. She gives me a random tour and tells me what’s valuable and what I should keep. There is some great stuff that I just can’t imagine in the hands of a stranger. Of course, I have my name on the Wurlitzer and the Hudson’s Bay blanket. I am my mother’s son.

Mom has never remarried and I do not think she wanted too, but I can’t say for sure. Either way, I can imagine there’s loneliness and too much quiet at times. She fills the void with combing antique stores, sifting through estate and garage sales, and surrounds herself with reminders of distant and recent memory. She enjoys them in spite of our wariness and wonder so I don’t encourage her too forcefully to stop. Mom is in her 80’s after all and can do whatever the hell she wants. So the elegant figurines, fluffy bunnies, ancient dolls, cats, and roses watch over her from their shelves and corners keeping her safe, I like to think. They keep her company and surround her with memories of a life lived. They make her home her own.