My latest endeavor is to try and find a good pair of birding binoculars.  I’ve pretty much settled on Swarovski binoculars because of their high quality.  I can’t see spending money that would go for bills on such indulgences, but I can justify the expense by using Christmas and birthday money that I have thrown into a box over the past few years (I know!).

Anyway, I’ll be reporting back on whatever I decide upon.  My last pair of binoculars that I had for 25 years were stolen on a trip to Panama.  I made the mistake of having them in an outside pocket of my luggage which was stashed on top of the bus that I took.  They weren’t expensive binoculars (Bushnell) but they were old friends.  My previous binoculars were also stolen and I had them for about 17 years (my van was stolen at the same time).  These new ones that I buy will have to be guarded like the crown jewels since I will be spending a bit on them.

It’s funny how I become attached to inanimate objects.  They often become like old friends.   I remember an old metal stool that has been in my family since I was about three years old.  I remember when I was about four painting this stool with my mother.  We painted the seat red and the strong metal wire legs white.  I still use this stool and take joy in the memories that are evoked when I do.  Same with my first binoculars.  I bought them when I had no money really, and used them all through my undergraduate and graduate years.  I took them on many birding expeditions and they always worked just fine even though they were inexpensive.

After my mother’s father died at age 95, the only thing that I wanted of his was an old shovel that he had used for many years.  When I used to visit him and my grandmother, we would often walk about his property, and he would always carry that old shovel.  He would chop weeds with it, or dig holes, and he used it exclusively in his large garden.  The point of the shovel was worn away and sharp as a knife, and the handle was worn smooth and silky by his hands over the years.  Every time I touch the shovel, a cascade of memories come tumbling back…and I smile happily.

When my father’s mother died at age 93, all I wanted was an old cast iron skillet that she had used for many, many years.  I  used to see her cooking breakfast with it for me and my grandfather.  I have the skillet on my stove now and use it all the time. It works almost like one of those new fangled non-stick pans.  The surface has become permeated with oils and grease over the course of half a century and more to the extent that food won’t stick easily. The value of these simple objects lie not in their monetary value of course, but in the patina of use and age along with the memories that have soaked into their very essence. I am reminded of the Japanese concept of sabi when I think of their importance to me.