Some people are serious collectors. I don’t belong in that category. However, I do collect – not anything valuable, just sentimental objects that I can’t throw away.
I suppose I am collecting memories. There are times in our lives we want to hang on to forever, and when we handle these mementos, they bring a smile to our lips, a tear to our eyes, and a bittersweet wave of nostalgia.
At my age – 94 – the most consistent thing I have collected is books (I must own close to 1,000). Those that overflowed my bookshelves are stowed in cardboard cartons. Many are paperbacks with yellowed pages and tattered covers.
To throw them out would be like disposing of dear friends. Lots of poetry – some by almost forgotten writers like Alice Duer Miller, Rupert Brooke, A.E. Housman, and Dorothy Parker.
Old novels by Somerset Maugham, Evelyn Waugh, Hemingway, and Steinbeck. Books on psychology, philosophy, and the craft of writing. They all represent my youth, when I discovered the world and the wonders it contained. No, I can’t throw them away.
Now I am lazier. Photos of my children (four), grandchildren (18), and great-grandchildren (42), I no longer have the patience to place them in albums. They overflow the drawers in my study, along with old letters and sentimental objects I want to keep.
Who remembers that song of yesteryear, “Among My Souvenirs”?
Part of the lyrics are:
“Some letters tied with blue,
A photograph or two,
I find a rose from you,
Among my souvenirs.”
Wedding invitation from 1955
A few days ago, I opened the bottom drawer in my writing desk for the first time in years. What I pulled out surprised even me because I had no idea it still existed. It was an invitation to my wedding in 1955.
Silver lettering on white paper – a double page – one side in English and the other side in Yiddish – inviting guests to the ceremony at St. Kilda Synagogue in Melbourne, Australia (my birthplace), and afterwards, a reception at The Lees – at that time, Melbourne’s only kosher restaurant.
It bore no resemblance to an Israeli wedding with hundreds of guests and nonstop loud music. We had 60 guests (30 from my side and 30 from the bridegroom’s – nearly all close family). My family were all Australian-born, including my parents.
My husband’s family were all from Poland, escaping the Holocaust. Both sides were rather startled that we were getting married.
The rabbi who married us (Jacob Danglow) was the same rabbi who had married my parents 40 years earlier. I don’t remember any music, but there was a lot of singing – in English from my side, and Yiddish from Harry’s.
There was only one glitch, under the huppah. The rabbi passed my father a cup of wine to give to me. Not knowing what to do with it, he drank it!
Despite all the differences, we felt it was a lovely wedding. My husband passed away on Simchat Torah six years ago, and finding our wedding invitation revived 65 years of memories – among my souvenirs.
The writer is the author of 14 books. Contact her at dwaysman@gmail.com