Ever notice that when a certain something gets associated with a person, that something begins to expand its presence. My dad loved toy trains; not only did he collect hundreds and hundreds and hundreds! of them, our house became the sacred resting grounds for all things train related. Pictures of trains, books about trains, books about toy trains, the entire set of Model Railroader, a monthly/weekly/everyday-ly magazine for the other 14 people in the world who, like my father, had turned their interest into an obsession, and then into an art form.
We had train tablecloths, tablecloths from the dining cars of trains, train embossed napkins; train meals, train utensils, for us as kids....yes, toy trains!; photos of trains adorned our walls, paintings of trains blessed the stair well, I had a book mark that was a spike for the rails of trains. We had wood carvings of trains, glass ash trays of trains....swear to the old goats and the gnu's, I think we had the ashes of a dead train conductor.
If it had to do with trains, we had it. At least, it seemed that way to my childhood self. And I can remember swearing, even as young as eight or nine, "I'm never, ever, going to take up collecting."
I've kept that promise for over six decades (though I'm only 41--if you're not sure of the math, see my previous blog on aging). Until the past few years.
Flamingos. It is my own fault, really. Back in 2010, I wrote a fun story for family and friends. The Flight of the Winter Flamingo was a delightful excursion and it still is today. In fact, with good fortune and favorable winds, the story may be an actual book that the whole world will want to read....possibly this October.
But with The Flight of the Winter Flamingo, my collection days began. Friends, family, strangers and space aliens all began sending me flamingo paraphernalia. Now, we have flamingo plates, flamingo bowls, flamingo serving dishes and utensils and napkins. There's a light-up flamingo in my back yard; there's a giant blow-up pink flamingo in my garage that goes to the pool with me. Pink flamingo's have arrived on our front yard in flocks too numerous to count, and there is a sculptural pink flamingo that adorns the screened in porch. Sadly, our HOA got wind of the eight foot tall, iron pink flamingo that I was considering for our '...one piece of ornamental yard art allowed...', and squashed my plans. My goodness, we have pink flamingos on the Christmas tree, and a tiny pink flamingo who keeps a watch over the little baby Jesus in the creche.
Now that I bask in flamingo wealth, I get it. Sometimes, it just seems apropos to have a little indulgence, a sliver of extravagance in one's life. Truth is, there's no sense resisting it; a certain something gets associated with you, and the world will know in about three to five days, the time it takes for Amazon to ship you your first flamingo kitsch. Regular delivery.
Might as well embrace this foundational rule of the universe, and enjoy it. Have fun with it. Because it is going to happen...there is no power in the heavens or the Avengers to prevent it. What I do suggest, though, is to choose wisely, and never let someone else choose for you. There is nothing endearing about the world's greatest cricket bat collection. And there's no room for collecting all the sets of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Choose something who's presence will make you happy, something that makes you smile all to yourself when your gaze sweeps across it.
Choose wisely. Choose carefully. Choose it yourself! But there's no use resisting it; a 'collection' is going to begin in your life.
Now, my newest flamingo's beer stein is alight, which means it is that hour. I must go; I go with the company of the Flamingo.
A good week to everyone. Keep writing! Keep your enjoyment in your writing reality. The world needs new stories. The world needs your story. You need your story
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