He tried. That’s the long and the short of it. With great persistence and determination, my father did his utmost to turn me into a well-rounded human being. That I have ended up with more angles than The Yellow Peril can hardly be his fault. Instead of developing an array of hobbies and interests, I succeeded in absorbing the tiny pieces of information that any one else would rightly regard as useless. If you’re heading to a pub trivia night, I’m your guy. But if you’re looking to shoot the breeze with someone who has a catalogue of fascinating pastimes, look elsewhere.
He tried. That’s the long and the short of it. With great persistence and determination, my father did his utmost to turn me into a well-rounded human being. That I have ended up with more angles than The Yellow Peril can hardly be his fault. Instead of developing an array of hobbies and interests, I succeeded in absorbing the tiny pieces of information that any one else would rightly regard as useless. If you’re heading to a pub trivia night, I’m your guy. But if you’re looking to shoot the breeze with someone who has a catalogue of fascinating pastimes, look elsewhere.
Stamps. As odd as it may sound to anyone under twenty, people used to collect stamps. These were the little artworks that occupied the upper right hand corner of an envelope that, assuming you’d done your sums correctly, ensured your letter would be delivered to its intended destination. This was back before email was invented and the Iced Vo Vo was still the pinnacle of luxury.
My father collected stamps as a child and assumed that I’d share his enthusiasm. Instead, I repaid this paternal attempt to foster an interest in philately as if he’d invited me to a trip to the dentist in a world without anesthesia. Perhaps it was because I never knew when it would come up. Randomly and without warning he’d suggest we should gather around the kitchen table and curate our stamp albums instead of sitting inertly in front of the television letting our minds turn to fairy floss. This attempted intrusion into prime-time viewing was always greeted with horror. Not that this dissuaded my father.
For as long as I can remember, the windowsill above the sink had a small glass of water in which the ripped right corner of an envelope was left to soak, to separate the envelope from the stamp. Come to think of it, I couldn’t even tell you what became of all those liberated stamps. Given the volume they would have occupied dozens and dozens of albums. I’m not sure they ever got that far. I suspect that the ritual of tearing the envelope and soaking the stamp was more important than where they ended up. For decades, my stamp album sat on the shelf of my father’s study. I suspect it’s still there. Despite the fact that it probably hasn’t had a stamp added to it since 1978, my father has kept it. In the highly improbable event that I change my mind and decide to collect stamps again, my father will be ready.
I wish I could say that it was only stamp collecting that I tried, failed and discarded. Fact is, there were so many other abortive attempts at hobbies that never really went anywhere, the remains of which are crammed into boxes and the far inaccessible corners of closets. By failing at stamp collecting, I never progressed to coins, pinball machines and sneakers like my brothers did. They have collected all manner of things. I was immune. In fact, my parents were so worried at my seeming disinterest in everything that they panicked and suggested I collect rocks.
When it comes to rock collecting, there are upsides and downsides. That you never have to feed them, water them or take them for a walk lest they should go stir crazy and start eating the furniture is a very good thing indeed. Given that every plant I have ever owned has inevitably come to grief by way of neglect, the ‘low maintenance’ status of rocks is pretty useful. But, then again, they’re not much in the way of company. In fact, even if you want to go for a walk around the neighbourhood with your pet rock, you can’t. Or you can, that is, but it’s going to weigh you down somewhat.
The rocks I collected occupied an entire shelf; far more space than the stamp album ever did. Not only did they soak up valuable real estate on my bookshelf, rocks became my presumptive souvenir and birthday gift. Imagine unwrapping a piece of granite for Christmas. It was, in a word, underwhelming. Often, though, I had only myself to blame. Family holidays usually ended up in a gift shop of some description where we were always given five minutes and as many dollars to select something. My siblings had far better taste than I did and always emerged with something on the far side of awesome. I, on the other hand, only every secured a handful of pebbles. When it became apparent that my interest in rocks was waning, talk turned to marbles.
There’s little I can say about marbles. My father seemed excited if not proud of his marbles. He explained that he’d collected these as a child and that they’d been a near-inexhaustible source of pleasure. He handed them too me as though they were treasure. Doubtless, he would have extolled the virtues of Aggies and Red Devils and the other members of the marble family. I, of course, promptly misplaced them. I am the very opposite of a collector – displacement is more my thing. Perhaps it’s okay to not be well rounded. Maybe there’s a certain pride you can take in being a hexagon, pentangle or nonagon. Forget smooth corners; edges matter in this world. But that being said, should you find my marbles, feel free to return them.