“Do you have a shirt that you really love
One that you feel so groovy in?
You don't even mind if it starts to fade
That only makes it nicer still”
— Donovan, “I Love My Shirt”
I’m beginning to develop an unnatural — some might say unhealthy — attachment to inanimate objects. More than an attachment, really; I have a relationship with these … things.
Sure, a lot of guys love their cars, bass boats, wives. Women love their homes, kids and, occasionally, their husbands.
I love my spatula.
At least that’s where it started, this unnatural fixation I have. Greenie. That’s my spatula’s name.
Greenie is a small, plastic spatula with just the exact right amount of “flex.” That spatula mixed scrambled eggs when my kids — now long grown and with kids of their own — were in elementary school.
I’ve flipped a thousand pancakes with Greenie, sauteed a million onions, stirred soups. Greenie has been with me longer than my past three wives, cumulatively.
I once thought I’d lost Greenie. For months I didn’t feel quite right; then she turned up packed away in some shipping boxes and all was again right with my world.
I feel a genuine … fondness … for that spatula. She’s a friend who has never let me down. (And yes, I realize I’ve “genderized” the thing; made it a “she.” Don’t care what Freud would say about that.)
My lucky shirt is a “he.” Whitey began life as a relatively pricey white dress shirt. I bought him to wear to a banquet where I received an award from the Associated Press Association. It was a big deal for me and I wanted to look good.
That was 20 years ago. Now I wear Whitey fishing and to bum around the house Sunday afternoons. Whitey sports a number of holes, many of which I have patched more than once. The collar is frayed; there are places where the fabric has worn so thin it’s almost transparent. One cuff has a small stain left by spilled wine I drank with my last wife on our ninth anniversary. She sometimes borrowed it to sleep in.
I’ve been told by more than one woman I should throw the shirt away, but I never will. I want to be buried in that shirt.
Besides, when I wear Whitey on the lake, I catch more fish. It may not be scientific, but it is true.
My shaving mug also is a “he,” though I haven’t had him long enough to name him. “Mugsy” might do, but that sounds a lot like a 1930s gangster and who needs that kind of violent association first thing in the morning?
He was a Christmas gift from Sweet Annie, along with a shaving brush, which also has no name. As is the case with Whitey, I’d like to be buried with the mug. It’s that special to me. Greenie I’m going to pass along to my daughter. It’s her inheritance; at this point in my checkered career, her only inheritance.
Other things on my “bury me with ‘em” list include a clay statue of a dog crafted by my son, Jordan, when he was in Kindergarten, a small, inlaid box I’ve kept guitar picks in for the past 20 years, a nameless barbecue brush and a little, metal coin with a rose on one side and a Bible verse on the other that was a gift from a very, very good friend.
All of these are things I love. But maybe that’s not so unnatural after all, now that I think about it. I guess it’s not really the “things” I love, but the times, the places, the people they remind me of.
Maybe all I really need to take with me into the afterlife are the memories.
mtaylor@staffordgroup.com / (616) 548-8273
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