Some people I know lead off their blog posts with massive photos of the minute and the mundane, photos that set the mood for the entry that follows. So I‘m going to be a copycat and do the same. Muwahahaha.
There are some objects that, against all odds, manage to stay with us through childhood, adolescence, and into our adult years. These objects acquire and then store memories for us, exceeding their original purpose as they become receptacles for our past. And they acquire scars, reminding us that we can’t travel through life unscathed, but we can always somehow emerge OK. In a society renowned for its throwaway culture, these objects might be old, battered, and bruised, yet we keep them still. They have more than a material worth. At the same time, however, they might not have much sentimental value—that is, they haven’t survived all this time because we’re overtly fond of them. They’ve just stayed with us.
This tape measure is one such object—and a surprising one, at that, considering I‘m not especially handy nor prone to measuring things. All the marks on its body tell me a story about my past, and about who I was. I don’t remember who gave it to me or when, but I obviously put it to good—and not so good—uses. The missing pieces at the top are probably the result of one or many ill-fated drops; stress-testing just doesn’t account for the overzealous measuring abilities of a 12-year-old. The black splotches along the top and side appear to be paint. I don’t remember what I was painting, or indeed if I’m even the one who was using it at the time. This tape measure has made its rounds through my immediate family, so I can’t take responsibility for every little scrape and scar.
The shark sticker, though, is all me. I went through this phase where I obsessively decorated my possessions with stickers—I think, even then, I didn’t like acquiring stuff I wasn’t going to use, and I had all these stickers … and one thing led to another. Every so often I’ll come across an artifact of my stickering phase.
But most quixotic and endearing is the fact that this tape measure isn’t particularly valuable, isn’t precious or handmade. It was made in Taiwan, in fact, one of many tape measures identically mass produced. Handmade objects are exquisite, but if there’s anything mass production reminds us, it’s of how quickly two identical things diverge and become unalike. No doubt this tape measure’s extant brothers and sisters have acquired their own battle scars. I hope some of them still have owners who, like me, are grateful more for what they remember than what they measure.
Do you have an object that bears your battle scars?
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I, too, went through a phase of marking possessions as my own by use of stickers. They didn’t even have to be stickers I had any connection to; I just liked the idea of putting them on things. For instance, I have a dresser that was salvaged from my old room that is covered in the tacky corporate advertisements of many an agricultural firm.
I had to think about this for a bit and come back to it.
At first I thought I might not have an answer for you.
But I do have a standard ol‘ paperback Belknap-Harvard edition of A Theory of Justice that’s lived through a few wars of my handwriting. Most of its 500-some odd pages are scrawled with lengthy (sometimes-decipherable) pencil notes that lead me to believe I was once much smarter than I now am.
Anyway - it’s not a tape measure, but it’s mass produced and covered in scars - and likely some essay-induced tear stains, too.
Bingo Ben,
I have had a small pink easer (that used to fit in a clicky-device much like a mechanical pencil, but its handy out layer has gone amiss) since I was about four. It has always been in the junk drawer of my parents‘ house.
I remember buying it in Montreal at a depanneur before my grandfather’s funeral. I played with that clicky eraser and Brainy Smurf for the duration of that funeral. I threw Brainy into my grandfather’s casket so that’s gone. But I still have this eraser. I check my Mom’s junk drawer every time I go home just to make sure it’s still there, covered in fluff, hanging out with pencil stubs, paper clips, old pens and broken fridge magnets. Yup.
@Maria: Old books are another category entirely (albeit not a disjoint one)! Some books just age and are aged by their owners in such a way that they become symbols of our quest for knowledge. In some ways, I love my battered books more than I do my pristine editions, and that’s why I have no compunction about marking up books I own.
@Socorro: That’s perfect. An otherwise unassuming object imbued with such meaning.
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I recall buying you the measuring tape…though why, I’m not sure…must have been stuck for extra gift ideas.
Monday, February 8, 2010 at 2:51 PM