As is the case today, the 60s and 70s were times fraught with social upheaval and great personal anxiety: civil rights, Vietnam, the counter culture, Watergate, gas shortages, high interest rates, the seeds of world terrorism. In response to this, during the mid-seventies, budding entrepreneurs came out with the mood ring and the pet rock. The mood ring would change colors based on how you were feeling: from green/blessed calm to black/supper stressed. A certain leafy substance was suggested if you wanted to keep your ring in the green zone. Pet rocks were for the busy urbanite who didn’t have time to clean up dog poop but still wanted a warm relationship with a non-sentient object.
I named my pet rock Ralph. We were an item for a couple of months. Where I went, Ralph went. True buddies. I eventually released Ralph to a rock pile in back of my apartment complex, so he could be with his own kind. It was an emotional farewell. This incident makes me think of all the ways we impute enduring value to certain inanimate objects that enter our lives.
There is that item of clothing that we just can’t let go of. A t-shirt that is mostly threadbare that we got at a rock concert years ago. A team ball cap with busted brim and faded colors that we still wear on special occasions. A treasured prom or wedding dress. The old sneakers that are unwearable, but memories keep them secreted in the back of the closet. Our existence tied up in bits of fabric.
I have close to three hundred LPs in a storage unit. Why not dump them? Because they framed my life from the mid 50’s until the early eighties. Someday I may still want to cradle my worn copy of Elvis’s Golden Records or caress the English pressing of the Beatles’ Hard Days Night. Gaze lovingly upon that seminal album Sports by Huey Lewis and the News. I may even buy a turntable. CDs occupy the same emotional space. My very first CD, Roundup, a collection of Western movie themes, still speaks to me from a prominent bookshelf. How can I have a relationship with an MP3 song downloaded on Amazon? We need a tactile friendship. Heck, I can’t even get rid of an old video tape I recorded that shows the incredible restoration of the Sistine Chapel.
For many of us, male or female, four wheel transportation is a ticket to our hearts. The car, truck or SUV that is just the right color, style and/or engine size. We accessorize the inside with rear view mirror doodads and color coordinated dash mats. We put decals on the rear window and add bumper stickers. Order a vanity license plate. This is who I am. While some of us recycle vehicles every couple of years, many of us hold on to our cherished transportation for years on end. It becomes part of the family. I named our long series of white mini vans Moby I, Moby II and Moby III for Moby Dick, the great white whale. Trading in an old reliable one for the next shiny version was always gut wrenching.
Our homes clearly have a defining place in our life stories. We associate phases of living with the houses and apartments we have known. Such as that old ramshackle starter home that protected us so many years ago. The one where the plumbing frequently backed up and the roof always leaked. Or the wonderfully built house that had views to kill for. But as Thomas Wolfe said, “You can never go home again.” In other words, you can never re-capture the experiences of the moment at those unique residences. In Florida, the previous family homesteads of my grandparents and parents were both bulldozed years ago. Not even a physical footprint left of those halcyon days of being in the family embrace. Still, the memories from those houses linger on.
So, cherish the clothing, music, vehicles and houses that we collect along the way. All the stuff that maps our lives. Now, if I can just remember where I put that little plush skunk I had as a kid, the one that survived a hotel laundry back in 1956.