Decorations of Remnants

If you go into my shop you will see all sorts of things. Things that to many have no good purpose. But to me are priceless, at least priceless because to most they are worthless pieces of junk. I do not know when I first began to hold onto things. I think it started when I began to spend days afield. At 14 when I harvested my first squirrel I remember my brother and I skinning it and “tanning” the hide, it still decorates my walls, missing most of its fur, but it is there in its special place on my wall and in my mind. And each time I look at it I remember that fateful day, the smell in the air the old abandoned house where it occurred. I remember cocking the single shot 16 gauge and squeezing the trigger, the feeling when the squirrel fell to the ground. I remember looking at it and feeling sad and proud at the same time. I still get that feeling each time I approach my harvested quarry.

In my shop you will find broken fishing reels and boots that no longer fit. There are tackle boxes full of lures missing hooks, plastic worms resembling tie dyed shirts and Rapala’s missing more paint than is left on them. There are bags full of empty shotgun shell boxes. I have so many empty shotgun shell boxes I had to store the “extras” under the house. I have flies that resemble dust balls. The old Ben Pearson bow I used to harvest my first deer, a collection of bent arrows, and bows missing stings. In one corner is the salt water rod and reel from a grandfather I never knew except through the stories I listened to around the dinner table. Sometimes I bring it from the corner, dust it off and imagine him hauling in a spot at Myrtle Beach, back when it was a beach. You will find pieces of wood from most of the projects I have ever begun and could not throw away the remnants. I prefer to call them remnants instead of scraps; there is more dignity in being a remnant than being labeled as scrap. Scrap carries a distinction of uselessness, while remnant implies “to be used later”.

My wife once asked me when I was going to clean out my mess. I was so insulted by the use of the word “mess” when referring to my place that I stayed out there consoling my things for two days. This is not a mess, on the contrary, it is a part of me, and it all has memories attached. On the pegboard is the lure I used to catch one of my biggest bass, a few flies I tried to make pretty but do not resemble anything alive or dead. I have empty brass from pistols, rifles and the like with no reloader to make use of them, but I always pick them up and bring them home. I have turkey calls that are more suited for paperweights than calling in turkeys. I have remnant antlers, saved during my stint at carving, an exercise, among many, in futility. But I may need them one day. So they too decorate my workbench. Clutter to one person is decoration to another. I prefer decorations of remnants, rather than clutter of scraps. It gives my things meaning and purpose.

You will also see here experienced fishing rods, long past their usefulness save for the memory they bring back. Shotgun reloaders, fly tying tools; sharpening stones, of differing types, soft, medium and hard, big ones and small ones, single stones and tri stones, grinding wheels, broken files, and a rasp that I have never used. The honing stone my dad had as a boy, framed with quarter round on a 2x4 when he was 10. Still the best stone I have.

When the rare time occurs that I invite someone to my place I am often asked where my trophies are from my many days afield. I stand in my shop and look around and point. “These are my trophies” I proclaim in a matter of fact manner. Each item has a story, each a memory, a recollection of a time, an experience; and I begin to share, one by one some of the memories. After all, I explain the real trophies of our times afield are not the animals on our walls, of which I have several; rather it is the times well spent, alone or with others. Those are the real trophies. Those are the real treasures, and these remnants remind me of times. There is the rifle casing from my moose. A simple piece of spent brass to many, to me it represents friendships made and the northern light witnessed for the first time. It represents blueberries as far as the eye can see, pancakes stashed for future use, bear tracks along a river, and cold days and even colder nights.

The faded orange hats, remind me of chasing grouse in Pennsylvania with a dear friend long gone except in my memory. Worn canvas vests, bring back days sitting beside my dad on his annual dove shoot when I acted as retriever. Three left handed gloves and two right, all carrying different patterns. The dull pocket knives honed past usefulness collect dust and horde memories of skinning raccoons, and squirrels.

No these are not scraps of old stuff, they are remnants of times, times with friends, times experiencing nature, times of solitude and times of camaraderie with those we care about. Clutter, scraps, junk, call them what you wish, but to me, they are decorations of remnants that collect in my mind, times well spent.