I have the first swizzle stick from the drink my wife and I shared 45 years ago at our wedding reception. For some reason, I held onto it for sentiment sake.
It's right there beside the records and cassette tapes I've stored over time, the old Victrola player I've kept that came with my camp, the jackknife my grandmother gave me for taking Castor Oil as a child, and my very first Playbill from a Broadway show.
It was to "West Side Story" and the girl I escorted on my first sincere date meant something special at the time. Then there were others.
I even have a can of beans. Really. It's a remnant from my dad's luncheonette and I kept that, too, for nostalgia.
By now, you may have guessed that I am what you call a pack rat. I've kept every one of these Almanac columns written since 1970 when I first launched the piece. Don't ask me why.
The paper has turned brown. The tape has yellowed. Some of them are falling from scrapbooks you can't even buy today. And yet, I'm holding onto them because they're the last remaining visage of my newspaper career.
Even after filling a Dumpster or two during our move from a large home to a modest condo four years ago, you won't believe the stuff that's accumulated and still being preserved. I cannot get rid of some of the awards I've achieved over my career, much less the letters people have written me.
Not that I'll reread them. In fact, if they're ever left for my children to dispose, they'll be gone in a heartbeat. Old postcards have stood the test of time. So have some of the papers my kids wrote in school — and their report cards.
How can I rid myself of pride and joy? I've also held onto their photographs, stories and memoirs of when they interned or corresponded for newspapers like mine. Too precious to dispose, I guess.
I'm getting better, though. Things I used to save in my previous life are the first to become discarded now. All the T-shirts I've stored over time are now being used as rags. My favorite suit has given way to a more modern look without the vest. And some of those Christmas relics I've harbored are finding their way to the dispose-all. Time to focus on grandchild keepsakes.
I've started photo albums for all five of them and the pages are filling rapidly.
"We don't need any more cutesy pictures of them playing with a toy," came the warning. "One or two at a birthday party will do just fine. Not every holiday or special occasion. Good thing cameras are digital now or else we'd have to take out a bank loan to support your habit."
Only recently were we able to talk our children into removing their outdated schoolbooks. No room where they lived so we housed them. We issued an ultimatum. Use them or lose them. Sometimes, you have to play hardball with your kids.
Some people may define it as junk. For me, it was always treasure. In some ways, my heart was going to me head.
Bad as I am, others are worse. I have a friend who should have moved from his home long ago but won't. He tells me he cannot part with his belongings. Just his books alone would qualify for a mini-library, never mind the newspapers and periodicals.
His wife complains often, but to deaf ears. The more he has, the more he buys. He even brought back dirt from Armenia to say he had soil from the homeland. Hope it was free.
Another friend is an artist and it's gotten to the point where he'd like to rid himself of his paintings. It's about time. The guy has been painting for decades and faces a similar dilemma as another artist in my city whose paintings were all in a trash heap the day after his funeral.
Photographer and writer Tom Vartabedian is retired from The Haverhill Gazette. He contributes this regular column.
