Bedpans and Ballpoint Pens

Whenever we had company, my father would haul out his collection of ballpoint pens. He had hundreds of pens with advertising slogans printed on them, glued to three-foot square boards where they would never write again. My siblings and I were mortified especially when the guests he was showing off to were ours. Nothing like having your prom date see your father’s ballpoint pen collection.

Of course, even then I realized the collection was a terrific conversation starter. Our guests would ooh and ah and ask how he got his hands on that hammer-shaped pen from a hardware store in Seattle or the one with a steak-shaped eraser from a butcher shop in Houston. The conversation was up and running. Plus, if the guests had any manners at all, they would immediately search their pockets or purses and hand over all their ball point pens.

Even knowing how useful his pen collection was, I secretly scoffed at my father and other collectors. I figured people who hoarded things like ballpoint pens, assorted steering wheels, and beer steins had too much time on their hands, like the woman I know who collects jigsaw puzzles—and puts them all together. Or too much space in their home, like the guy I read about who has devoted an entire room to typewriters. Or too much money, like the guy who paid $6000 for Lee Harvey Oswald’s toe tag.

I believed collectors to be lonely people with immense voids in their lives. I could see them lying awake at night thinking, “If I can just get my hands on that pocketknife/golf tee/watering can, my life will be complete.” But then it never is and one more pocketknife/golf tee/watering can is always necessary.

But my biggest objection was the certainty that if I started a collection, my chosen collectible would be the only gift I’d receive for every birthday or Christmas for the rest of my life—unless I collected Ferraris.

Then I had a conversion experience while I was hosting a dinner party. I decided I needed a collection of my own when the silences dragged on so long that I was tempted to mention my father’s pen collection.

Instead I asked if any of my guests had a collection. The conversation took off. At my table that night were collectors of lunch boxes, lava lamps, playing cards, and piggy banks. it was fascinating—for them.

I decided then and there that if I ever collect something, I want it to be something I’m genuinely interested in, something that speaks to me. A friend told me a lawn ornament in the form of Snow White practically called out to her from the shelves of a hardware store. And what’s Snow White without a dwarf or seven? Or seventeen?

It would also be nice if there were great acquisition stories attached to each piece in my collection. A woman I know nearly lost her teeth in a fight over an antique baby carriage she’d spotted at a garage sale. The way she tells it, you’d think she’d been fighting the other woman for the baby himself.

My chosen collection shouldn’t take up too much space; antique washing machines are out. It can’t be too expensive, no precious gems. And of course, it must be a good conversation starter. Call me close-minded, but I think that eliminates garden hose nozzles.

Keeping these requirements in mind, I’m on the lookout for a collection of my own. The choices are bewildering; there is hardly anything that someone doesn’t collect.

I’ve seen collections of sunglasses, perfume bottles, paperweights, and license plates. An acquaintance of mine collects antique bedpans and can speak endlessly about them. Boy is he fun to be around.

I know people who collect mermaids, unicorns and Mt. Rushmores that have been stuffed, sculpted, or dangled from jewelry. None of these collections really “speaks to me,” but the collectors are handy to know in a scavenger hunt.

My aversion to dusting discourages me from the ever-popular spoons, decorative plates, and salt and pepper shakers. People collect ashtrays and matchbooks, but that seems foolish for me since I don’t smoke. Thimbles? I don’t sew. Watering cans? I don’t garden either. Guns? Too dangerous. Novelty thumb tacks? Too sharp. Hawaiian shirts? Too ugly.

It’s tough, but I know someday the perfect collectible will call out to me from the shelves of a secondhand store, and I’ll just know. Until then, I’ll be more careful about who I have over for dinner.

Dorothy Rosby is the author of ’Tis the Season to Feel Inadequate; Holidays, Special Occasions and Other Times Our Celebrations Get Out of Hand, coming in November 2022.  Contact her at www.dorothyrosby.com/contact.