At my job I often rescue quite a lot of things from certain death. Solid steel typewriters from a bygone era (one of which I have sitting beside my bed and use to write my novel before transferring those rough copies to the computer, a typewriter I shall post pictures of at a later date), books, handbags, bed linen (with a slight tear or two easily remedied by a needle and thread), freaky yet awesome miscellaneous items and too many other things to name.
One of these many other items I rescued is this:
A farmer's suitcase from a long, long time ago (that's a genuine Bakelite handle there, folks!) which I've dressed up with equally mature postcards, the majority being from my own ancestry. Sadly, the suitcase did not come with a key so I do have the occasional nightmare of finding the latch closed and the precious contents inside forever lost because I would be loath to destroy this handsome piece of engineering (and the family photographs, postcards on it).
The precious cargo inside the suitcase?
Among other things, I have:
An "I Rock With Obama" t-shirt which should not at all be in a wooden suitcase. (I cast my first ever Presidential vote and nearly died from the pride of it all - and Obama still lost this county in which I live). But, the other day I came across a brand new, still in the package "t-shirt frame". Very soon will this cotton slice of American history be showcased in a proper place. Where, I haven't decided; I haven't the wall space.
Three ornaments from one of my late Grandmother Alys's themed Christmas trees. This is the same grandmother who collected lawn gnomes (by that one guy who stuck a penny on the gnome's underside) and who collected so many that they were everywhere. Outside on the lawn, on benches, in the garden, the dooryard, the concrete patio, the driveway. Inside on the fireplace mantle, on side tables, in bedrooms.
I have had a horrific fear of lawn gnomes since my infancy.
An empty toilet paper roll from the slumber/"Bon Voyage, Lora!" party which took place my freshman year of high school. Topics of this party included but were not limited to The Burning Bed (purchase here or here), "Teaching Mrs. Tingle", houses which needed to be and were toilet papered, and a single question asked by Ms. Burning Bed regarding a certain school wrestler who reciprocated my feelings of adoration in kind (though I realized this far too late in that bitter gift of hindsight; at the time, all I did was blush and revel in my clinical depression, resulting in this crush of mine turning ornery and hateful).
Also, a plastic bouncy ball from the local Chinese restaurant where I went with Apt Teacher (9th paragraph down if you'd be so kind) and a boy who I thought I loved (because he somehow reminded me of that wrestler in the 9th grade).
A soda bottle from the first and only car pool to MATC for the Graduation For Dummies Class scheduled Career Profiling. We drove in a mini van, ate pizza, and drank these Black Bear sodas bought at Pick 'N Save from the kid who reminded me of that 9th grade wrestler. Said kid fell out of the van. I still have the pictures taken of that fall...
And you may notice the writing in blue ink behind that soda bottle. It reads
A signed -
Yes
SIGNED head shot of Ellen Burnstyn. The Ellen Burnstyn. I sputter just looking at that picture, which some idiot decided to get rid of at a tag sale (the plastic document sleeve the head shot is stored in bears the disgusting price of "$3.00") and unbelievably poor signed Ellen Burnstyn didn't sell at the tag sale and went to the thrift store from which I snagged her.
She is even stored, in her plastic document sleeve, along side of
President Lyndon "Let's-Go-Kill-Your-Husbands-and-Fathers-and-Children-in-Vietnam" Johnson. Notice the location of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. My mother went to college for 40 years at Pennsylvania State University, some 91.6 miles away from Harrisburg at University Park. I wonder if she went to that gathering? I wonder if this gathering was anywhere around the time her college sweetheart and first husband was murdered in that war no one belonged in?
So that's it then. A peek at some of the numerous items I have crammed into Bill Klein's suitcase.
One of these many other items I rescued is this:
A farmer's suitcase from a long, long time ago (that's a genuine Bakelite handle there, folks!) which I've dressed up with equally mature postcards, the majority being from my own ancestry. Sadly, the suitcase did not come with a key so I do have the occasional nightmare of finding the latch closed and the precious contents inside forever lost because I would be loath to destroy this handsome piece of engineering (and the family photographs, postcards on it).
The precious cargo inside the suitcase?
Among other things, I have:
An "I Rock With Obama" t-shirt which should not at all be in a wooden suitcase. (I cast my first ever Presidential vote and nearly died from the pride of it all - and Obama still lost this county in which I live). But, the other day I came across a brand new, still in the package "t-shirt frame". Very soon will this cotton slice of American history be showcased in a proper place. Where, I haven't decided; I haven't the wall space.
Three ornaments from one of my late Grandmother Alys's themed Christmas trees. This is the same grandmother who collected lawn gnomes (by that one guy who stuck a penny on the gnome's underside) and who collected so many that they were everywhere. Outside on the lawn, on benches, in the garden, the dooryard, the concrete patio, the driveway. Inside on the fireplace mantle, on side tables, in bedrooms.
I have had a horrific fear of lawn gnomes since my infancy.
An empty toilet paper roll from the slumber/"Bon Voyage, Lora!" party which took place my freshman year of high school. Topics of this party included but were not limited to The Burning Bed (purchase here or here), "Teaching Mrs. Tingle", houses which needed to be and were toilet papered, and a single question asked by Ms. Burning Bed regarding a certain school wrestler who reciprocated my feelings of adoration in kind (though I realized this far too late in that bitter gift of hindsight; at the time, all I did was blush and revel in my clinical depression, resulting in this crush of mine turning ornery and hateful).
Also, a plastic bouncy ball from the local Chinese restaurant where I went with Apt Teacher (9th paragraph down if you'd be so kind) and a boy who I thought I loved (because he somehow reminded me of that wrestler in the 9th grade).
A soda bottle from the first and only car pool to MATC for the Graduation For Dummies Class scheduled Career Profiling. We drove in a mini van, ate pizza, and drank these Black Bear sodas bought at Pick 'N Save from the kid who reminded me of that 9th grade wrestler. Said kid fell out of the van. I still have the pictures taken of that fall...
And you may notice the writing in blue ink behind that soda bottle. It reads
BILL KLEIN
RFD #1
NEWTON, IOWA
PHONE 2533W
RFD #1
NEWTON, IOWA
PHONE 2533W
So, Mr. Klein or any surviving heir(s), I have your suitcase. It is serving me very well and I promise to take good care of what was once yours. Thank you, Sir.
A signed -
Yes
SIGNED head shot of Ellen Burnstyn. The Ellen Burnstyn. I sputter just looking at that picture, which some idiot decided to get rid of at a tag sale (the plastic document sleeve the head shot is stored in bears the disgusting price of "$3.00") and unbelievably poor signed Ellen Burnstyn didn't sell at the tag sale and went to the thrift store from which I snagged her.
She is even stored, in her plastic document sleeve, along side of
President Lyndon "Let's-Go-Kill-Your-Husbands-and-Fathers-and-Children-in-Vietnam" Johnson. Notice the location of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. My mother went to college for 40 years at Pennsylvania State University, some 91.6 miles away from Harrisburg at University Park. I wonder if she went to that gathering? I wonder if this gathering was anywhere around the time her college sweetheart and first husband was murdered in that war no one belonged in?
So that's it then. A peek at some of the numerous items I have crammed into Bill Klein's suitcase.
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