On Being a Pack Rat
My paternal grandmother, Ruth, was a pack rat. At least, that’s what my mom would tell me with a note of defeat when she implored me to clean my room every day.
It’s true. Gramma’s where I got it.
Going to her place was an archeological expedition. There was always treasure:
Books from the 1800s, leather-bound and dusty; mid-century Life magazines (not enough Marilyn); National Geographics; a first edition, a signed Ripley’s Believe It or Not, signed by Mr. Ripley himself, to which Gramma’s stepfather had contributed; drawings and paintings; rocks painted to look like shoes and bugs; macrame owls; piles of crocheted throws; family photos; autographed celebrity photos from the 1930s; a Drinking Bird that sipped water out of a glass; a little rubber King-Kong that once had a surprise wasp in its mouth (OUCH!); Chanel No. 5; Jean Naté dusting powder; lavender hand soap wrapped in fancy tissue; my father’s well-loved-yet-creepy Zippy chimp; several Kewpie dolls; Bla…