My parents were collectors. In the traditional sense, they collected antique glass and blue enamelware, but my dad also collected oddities. He made his living as a long-haul trucker, so he wasn’t home much. He would come in from his travels, usually a run from South Carolina to Ohio, and he would have a treat for me. One time, he brought me a persimmon seed. Said it was super lucky because he had dug it out of some dog shit that was at a truck stop. I put it between my palms and pressed it tight, hoping to release some of that dog shit magic. I still have that seed.
Our house was filled with objects that had belonged to other people both dead and still alive. Some I knew, and some I would never meet. But no matter the object, I was allowed to touch it. These objects weren’t treated as if they were for special occasions or for show only. One of my mom’s prized blue enamelware pieces was a giant bowl that sat under our pie safe (also belonged to some dead person we didn’t know), and she would pile our potatoes in it. I would dump those potatoes in the kitchen floor and sit in that giant bowl. The bottom was warped, so it wouldn’t stay still. I would get my sister to spin me. The bowl would get to spinning. I would get to laughing. And then it would dump me out onto the floor among all of the potatoes. I would daydream about other kids spinning in the giant potato bowl. What were they like? Did they live like me? Did they even have electricity when they were spinning?
I wanted to be a collector too. New didn’t work for me. I needed things that belonged to others. My first attachment to an object happened when I saw my Ma Goforth’s beehive wig. It was beautiful. It sat high up on a closet shelf perched atop a Styrofoam wig form. Honey brown curls were piled together to create a cascade of glamour. The wig was reserved for Sunday morning church services. The only other time it would leave the house was to be styled and refreshed at the salon. I would daydream about that wig while laying on my back stuck to Ma’s Naugahyde sofa.
I saw myself as a vagabond, and my only constant in life was the wig. It was my armor. I could put the wig on and change the outcome of any scenario. The wig provided me with endless options for adventures in my head. It was an escape hatch. I would find myself in Italy with that wig on, sitting at an outdoor café and looking chic while smoking a cigarette. In my child’s mind, the wig was pure sophistication, and sophistication must be exotic travel and cigarettes. Other times, I would think about where the wig had been. What had it seen? Experienced? Had it witness a violent crime that no one else knew about? As soon as I could, I started to explore these thoughts on paper.
My stack of journals was as high as my stack of my books. Still is. I always felt like I didn’t know how to journal because my friends wrote about school, boys, and other friends. I did too, but it wasn’t the same. Those tidbits were tucked into stories about dog-shit magic and the power of a good wig in Italy.
When I went away to college, I was suddenly surrounded by everything new—dorm life, college classes, people from places I had never seen. Nothing was familiar, and it was unsettling. On Thursday nights, I would sit down to write postcards to my Papa Briggs, my Ma Goforth, and my daddy. ER would be blaring throughout the dorm (it was a huge deal in 1995). Girls would be getting ready to go out for the night and start the weekend early. I would be enjoying the same things, but I needed that connection to the old experiences in order to open up and enjoy the new ones. The objects and the stories kept me grounded to where I came from while I was exploring and enjoying new places. Those postcards I received back held snippets of stories from those I loved. That persimmon seed was zipped safely in my wallet as a touchstone to home.
I’ve found I’m still connected to objects that belonged to others. If I see a sign for an estate sale, we’re going. I’m not even asking you if you want to stop. And while I do enjoy the hunt for the treasure, it’s the story I’m after. Lately, I’ve found myself drawn to portraits and family photos I have found at the thrift. I’m drawn to them because they have a story to tell.
I found a box of loose photos a few years ago and rifled through them until I came to one with names handwritten on the back. Ruth Booth. Even in black and white, I could see her colors. She had something to say. Perhaps she had another life she had wanted to live. So, that is exactly what I decided to do for her. I ended up writing “To The Men I’ve Missed,” and it was published. I don’t know Ruth Booth and never will. I don’t know if she has any family left, but she now has a new story to tell.
I’m surrounded by those old postcards from my loved ones, portraits and photographs of strangers, and, of course, the wig. So many stories left to tell in each object and maybe, just maybe, if I sit with them long enough, they will whisper those stories to me
Katy Goforth is the author of Anchored and Traveling Alone. Her writing has appeared in Brevity, Reckon Review, Cowboy Jamboree, Salvation South, and other journals. She is Pushcart, Best American Short Stories, and Best Small Fictions nominated. She was born and raised in South Carolina and lives with her spouse and two pups, Finn and Betty Anne. Learn more at katygoforth.com and follow her @katygoforthwrites.