The Treasure Hunt.
Junkers, Collectors and Hoarders of all that is rejected make each misshapen item the centre of their collecting lives.
Church shops selling donated stuff, local second-hand stores and old sheds out back of the neighbour's house are all potential gold mines.
Aided and abetted by mothers, the earliest enablers.
The Treasure Hunt initiates the hapless victim. Are the children victims? Yes…. And they love every minute of it. Search, look closely, determine what you have found. Simple? Perhaps more difficult than it seems.
We are insatiable treasure hunters, taught as kids to seek out that which is the grain and not the chaff. Be discerning we are urged, recognize what has real value. We learn about what quality and durability mean, inheriting this from our parents who, in some cases, had to 'make do.'
These lessons learned from continuous depression and recovery. This was dad's experience, not mum's; hers, a world of privilege. We land between our parents.
What was it we retained from these forays into the world of used and antique?
My own experience was remembering the clothes my grandfather wore, the Burberry raincoat, the felt hat, the leather shoes. All from a world I barely knew. These were markers in my memory, directional arrows, vector points, quietly showing a way.
We never lose our desire for treasure, our burning zeal to find gold in any form. We find ourselves looking again, at what we view as treasure. What do we treasure today? Searching through nameless shops in search of something we think we need.
Home again, we regard our lovers and friends and family and foes.
Think if we did not have them as treasured parts of our community? No gold coin could replace them. Their treasure is the lives they lead which shine forth with a subtle lustre more valuable than anything from Solomon’s mines.
We still love the search. Perhaps, the last left to discover will be the place where we started to quote the famous line.
René Hackstetter Jan 19, 2020.
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