Mom, the World Collector

 Mom, the World Collector

     My mother Ruth grew to do a few things in her lifetime. 

     One of her passions was to collect antiques.

    She was born a little before the United States entered World War II, the summer of 1940, in a part of the country that has older homes, some of them even colonial; historical houses of the early heritage of our American ancestors. Not super old by other nation standards, but old for the United States.

A land of villages and hamlets on the northeast Atlantic coast steeped in history.

Abraham Lincoln convinced our country that the legacy of the Pilgrims and the native Americans was a thing of thanksgiving and gratitude, which occurred not too far away.

Maybe as a child she was fascinated by trinkets, by colorful woods and metals and glassware; maybe the lack of those things built up a reserve or hunger in her psyche; her family was less well off than many of the families where she and her older siblings attended school. Maybe she did not have easy access to such things.

As a young nurse she learned to look after other humans, large and small. She collected experiences of care and compassion.

As she went on to marry, have three children, and help raise a few more foster ones, her interest in relics increased.

Jewelry.  Trinkets.  Art.  China.  Handicrafts.  Baubles.  Dishes.  Frames.  Goblets.  Chalices. Portraits. Credenzas.  Hutches.  Trophies. Wine glasses.  Saucers.  Tea Spoons. Heir looms.  Rugs. Knives.  Tools.  Carpets.  Baskets. Books. Keepsakes. Memorabilia.  Treasures.  Personal items.  Advertisements from yesteryear.  Magazines.  Americana.  Stones, pearls, gems, silvers, and golds...

En fin: todo bajo del sol. (In the end: everything below the sun).

She collected it all.

Over the decades she watched and searched, pouring over scrap sales and yard rummages and all types of auctions and markets of fleas and their dogs and otherwise.  The centuries piled up and left their wake, mere detritus to some, but hidden valued pieces and members of unheard of nuggets of priceless parts to her and those who would know.

Those who collected and bought, refinished and re-sold. Some things she would keep.

Antiques. Collectibles. The market of ultimate accountability, and it became hers.

The world was her oyster, and she knew wherein lay the prize.

Beyond the hunt, the awareness, the recognition, the purchase, the sale, the negotiations and bartering, the give and take of the sale, was the underlying dream of the artifact: the human behind the treasure was actually the most valued keepsake. The memory of the creator. The unknown value of the eternal remnant left over from years and times seemingly lost, now found in a piece of the human handiwork designed by a mortal soul. Long lost, but now found.

Salvation realized.

Mom went to far and near lands, outwardly helping, inwardly collecting.

Lome, Sokode, Shengi, Bonthe, Freetown, Bloomington, Nashville, Brimfield,  Nassau, Tahoe, West Baden, Phnom Penh, Surabaya, Colombus...

She collected worldly things, remnants of mortal remains.

She saw and touched the world.

She grew up and beyond the everyday belongings.

She purchased and sold, traded and dealt.

She moved past the current veil, and now does her dealings in the skies.

Where worm nor dust will corrupt.

Her treasures are now up in heaven. Her legacies remain.

The collections left behind here on the earth, guarded and stored.

Mom, my earthly and heavenly mother, the collector.

Dreams collect and dissipate; my memories, all those memories, all the recollections gathered for the world to unearth, where no earthly stain corrupts. A place of clear skies and peace, an everlasting calm and tranquil abode. With arts and crafts and rugs and tapestries of life and love.

She collected them all.