Vartabedian: Confessions of a Genuine Pack Rat

How about spilling some of my beans?

I have the first swizzle stick from the drink my wife and I shared 45 years ago at our wedding reception. For some reason, I held onto it for sentiment sake.

It’s right there beside the records and cassette tapes I’ve stored over time, the old Victrola player I’ve kept that came with my camp, the jackknife my grandmother gave me for taking Castor Oil as a child, and my very first Playbill from a Broadway show.

It was to “West Side Story” and the girl I escorted on my first sincere date meant something special at the time. Then there were others.

Ah, yes, that can of beans. It’s a remnant from my dad’s luncheonette and I kept that, too, for nostalgia purposes.

Food for thought perhaps?

By now, you may have guessed. I happen to be a veritable pack rat. I’ve kept every one of these Almanac columns written since 1970 when I first launched the piece. Don’t ask me why. Perhaps I’m also a creature of habit.

The paper has turned brown. The tape has yellowed. Some of them are falling from scrapbooks you can’t even buy today. And yet, I’m holding onto them because they’re the last remaining visage of my newspaper career.

Even after filling a dumpster or two during our move from a large home to a modest condo four years ago, you won’t believe the stuff that’s accumulated and still being preserved. I cannot get rid of some of the awards I’ve achieved over my career, much less the letters people have written me.

Not that I’ll reread them. In fact, if they’re ever left for my children to dispose, they’ll be gone in a heartbeat. Old postcards have stood the test of time. So have some of the papers my kids wrote in school—and their report cards.

How can I rid myself of pride and joy? If that doesn’t suffice, I’ve also held onto their photographs, stories, and memoirs of when they interned or corresponded for newspapers like mine. Too precious to dispose, I guess.

I’m getting better, though. Things I used to save in my previous life are the first to become discarded now. All the T-shirts I’ve stored over time are now being used as rags. My favorite suit has given way to a more modern look without the vest. And some of those Christmas relics I’ve harbored are finding their way to the dispose-all. Time to focus on grandchild keepsakes.

I’ve started photo albums for all five of them and the pages are filling rapidly.

“We don’t need any more cutesy pictures of them playing with a toy,” came the warning. “One or two at a birthday party will do just fine. Not every holiday or special occasion. Good thing cameras are digital now or else we’d have to take out a bank loan to support your habit.”

Only recently were we able to talk our children into removing their outdated schoolbooks. No room where they lived so we housed them. We issued an ultimatum. Use them or lose them. Sometimes, you have to play hardball with your kids.

Some people may define it as junk. For me, it was always treasure. In some ways, my heart was going to me head.

Bad as I am, others are worse. I have a friend who should have moved from his home long ago but won’t. He tells me he cannot part with his belongings. Just his books alone would qualify for a mini-library, never mind the newspapers and periodicals.

His wife complains often, but to deaf ears. The more he has, the more he buys. This guy cannot resist an impulse for anything ethnic, even if it’s a swizzle stick. Why he even brought back dirt from Armenia to say he had soil from the homeland.

Another friend happens to be an artist and it’s gotten to the point where he’d like to rid himself of his paintings. It’s about time. The guy has been painting for decades and faces a similar dilemma as another artist in my city.

The day after his funeral, most all his work was in a trash pile by his home. His wife could tolerate no more and decided to allow more breathing space for herself.

The same could be said for another fellow I know who amassed more than 200 trophies and plaques during his running career, only to see them trashed after he died. Fortunately, I drove by his home and wound up filling my car with his bounty.

They were ultimately donated to a special needs group that welcomed the awards.

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Tom Vartabedian

Tom Vartabedian is a retired journalist with the Haverhill Gazette, where he spent 40 years as an award-winning writer and photographer. He has volunteered his services for the past 46 years as a columnist and correspondent with the Armenian Weekly, where his pet project was the publication of a special issue of the AYF Olympics each September.