Snow globes

 I sat alone in my father's house. He passed away a week ago. As I looked around at his possessions, I remembered back when I was young, going to garage sales and auctions, not to mention countless thrift stores and bargain basements, in search of that one item he had to have. Today, he said we were on the hunt for snow globes. That won't be easy, I said to myself. He already had over fifty or so on a shelf I'm staring at and remembering. He tended to yell BINGO when he discovered something he liked, and it was time to deal. I felt bad for the vendors at flea markets because Dad would say they expect you to offer a low figure so they could play the game of negotiating. He usually got what he wanted at the price he knew he'd pay.

As I look around, most of his stuff is just that stuff. It meant something to him, and I know he took pride in showing it off. There were Sunday dinners where he would get up from the table to go get something he had just acquired and bring it to the table to explain its value to him. I mean, who wouldn't want a stained bone saw sitting next to the mashed potatoes?

He was one of the most talented men I know. He published three books and wrote greeting cards for a well-known company. Over the years, he composed song lyrics and had a blog with over seven hundred posts. But to me, he was my dad, the stuff collector. He was a little outside the box, but that was fine with me. He was happy with his life and loved his family above all else. 

I picked up the box I filled with things I knew he cherished, leaving the rest for other family members to sort through before donating the rest to thrift stores, flea markets, and every place he loved to go. I imagine most of it went right back to where he bought it. Ironic, isn't it?

I put the box in my truck, careful not to break any of the fifty-two snow globes I knew he wanted me to have. Where in the hell am I going to put them?

Mike 2024