AT WAR WITH MYSELF

I'm a collectiholic. I hate throwing anything away. I've kept bags filled with used corks, pretty colored bits of shiny paper, magazines articles, wire, bobby pins, broken fishing poles, tool handles,  faded lumpy sleeping bags, hair curlers...if it has a shape, and a former use, it  is useable. If I give-in and throw it out, that item immediately reveals its usefulness the moment I can no longer retrieve it.  I'm honestly trying to change those old habits.  I'm regularly at war with myself over this issue and the junk often wins. Imagine my delight and validation in rediscovering Edgar Guest's poem:
THE JUNK BOX
                   The Junk Box
                                                      Edgar Guest
          My father often used to say:
          "My boy, don't throw a thing away:
          You'll find a use for it some day."
          So in a box he stored up things,
          Bent nails, old washers, pipes and rings,
          And bolts and nuts and rusty springs.
          Despite each blemish and each flaw,
          Some use for everything he saw;
          With things material, this was law.
          And often when he'd work to do,
          He searched the junk box through and through
          And found old stuff as good as new.
          And I have often thought since then,
          That father did the same with men;
          He knew he'd need their help again.
          It seems to me he understood
          That men, as well as iron and wood,
          May broken be and still be good.
          Despite the vices he'd display
          He never threw a man away,
          But kept him for another day.
          A human junk box is this earth
          And into it we're tossed at birth,
          To wait the day we'll be of worth.
          Though bent and twisted, weak of will,
          And full of flaws and lacking skill,
          Some service each can render still.

AUTO MESSAGES, VARIED COMMUNICATION FORMS

That song, “I Was Born In A Small Town,” has been running through my mind a lot lately. And, Murphys is a small town with a lot of character and much to recommend it. I remember upon first moving here in 1978 that everyone waved at you from their vehicles whether they knew you or not. It was a typical friendly gesture from the townsfolk even to a “flatlander” as we later learned we were called.
In those days we spied someone wearing a T-shirt with the message, “I’m not a tourist I live here in Murphys.” A nice distinction, and kind of fun. We bought them immediately. Those were the days when messages on T-shirts were popular-and they still are. But…now I see personal messages on cars and it kind of tickles me. In the 70’s if you painted your car you were a hippy. Now, anything goes. Everyone is trying to get their message out. I'm no different, I’m blogging! Its kinda crazy, and new, but I like it. Don’t think I’ll write on my car, though. Or maybe...?