The Citizen, 1995-12-20, Page 5THE CITIZEN, WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 20, 1995. PAGE 5.
Collecting bug
a powerful
one
Want to see the world's greatest collection
of Mack Trucks? Then hie yourself off to
Hillsborough, New Hampshire. That's where
Dick Keep lives. With his Mack Truck
collection — some 90 different models, going
all the way back to 1916.
If it's used oil rags you want to see, wangle
an invite to Ed Habeman's basement, in
Tama, Iowa. Ed has some 1,300 used oil
rags, all washed and neatly folded in piles.
Californian Walter Cavanaugh has a
massive collection of credit cards — 1,356 in
all. And he keeps them in the world's largest
wallet. It's custom-made and 250 feet long.
John Ahrens of New Jersey only carries a
Visa card, but he uses it regularly to buy
beer in cans. He has some 15,000 cans — all
different. And all empty.
Some folks collect stamps. Others collect
Toby jugs or tea cups. But you have to
wonder what it is that makes so many of us
start piling up mounds of usually fairly
forgettable stuff — just for the sake of
collecting it.
The Collecting Bug is a powerful one. I
bet if we could travel back in time we'd find
some Cro Magnon crouched in a cave,
polishing his collection of sea shells or sabre
Love ye
one another
"And this is His commandment. That we
should believe on the name of His Son Jesus
Christ, and love one another, as he gave us
commandment."
This passage from the first Epistle of John
has for years been on my mind as I have
travelled to numerous countries and been on
the receiving end of expressions of brotherly
love. These stand out even more because of
the propensity of so many people to pass by
on the other side, figuratively and literally,
and in a world where cynicism seems at time
to reign supreme.
Acts of kindness to me have been
multitudinous; I will pick out a few that
stand out in my mind. For the first I go all
the way to Russia where I met a Russian
who had come to fix the plumbing in my
hotel room in Smolensk. We chatted for a
while after the repair work was done and
then he left.
A few minutes later there was a knock at
my door. It was the plumber with two bottles
of beer in his hand. He felt he should do
something for me before he left. We talked a
bit more then drank a toast to "mir y
drushba" (peace and friendship).
Remember that this was the height of the
cold war when the Soviet Union was
supposed to be against everything that the
toothed tiger incisors.
Some folks go in for "ball" collections. I
don't mean collecting balls, I mean
colleciing balls of things. Things like, well,
the giant ball that Jesse S. James has in his
basement in Maywood, California. For the
past 40 years, Jesse has been collecting bits
of barbed wire and adding them to his ever-
burgeoning prickly ball of steel.
Net worth? Nada — except to Jesse S.
J times,
Other people collect balls of tin foil. Or
cigarette wrappers. Or shoelaces.
And there's string, of course. J.C. Payne of
Texas earned a mention in the Guinness
Book of Records for his String ball. It
measures 13 feet, two and a half inches in
diameter.
And then there's Wilhelm Steiner. Willie
collects string too — or used to, in his house
in Genthin, Germany. Like many collectors
Willie was a tad obsessive about his hobby.
His wife hated the string ball. Told Willie
she'd leave him if he didn't dump it.
Decision time. Willie had to choose
between his wife and his string ball.
Then, just as suddenly as the crisis erupted
it was over. Mrs. Steiner disappeared and
Willie became even more obsessive about
his ball of string.
And the ball grew. From six feet to seven
feet in diameter. Then to eight feet. Steiner
started winning prizes for his collection. He
entered his ball in the German National
String Collecting Competition. A fork lift
maneuvered the ball out of his house, across
town and into the exhibition hall where the
West stood for. Yet a Russian plumber could
find the time and inclination to break down
the barriers of that war and bring some joy to
me, a stranger in a strange land.
One summer I cycled around much of
western Europe, ending up in England. Most
of the time I was able to find a youth hostel
in the vicinity of where I was going but now
and again I could not. I would find a
convenient haystack, put down my ground
sheet and get somg sleep. The next morning
I would approach the farm and tell them
what I had done and thank them.
Every time that this happened, without
exception, I would be invited in to have
breakfast and at no time did the farmer's
family skimp on the food. Speaking the
language certainly helped but the innate
kindness had to be there for it to happen.
I went off to Coimbra in Portugal one
summer to improve my rather rudimentary
knowledge of Portuguese. What I remember
most is the kindness of the Portuguese
family with whom I lived, as well as the
minister of the small Protestant church
located in the city. They both took hours of
their time each week, refusing any payment
whatsoever, to help me with the
complexities of the language which is
admittedly harder than its French, Spanish
and Italian cousins.
We would regularly have our "cafezinho"
which included not only coffee but all sorts
of goodies, many of which were baked for
the occasion. Small wonder that I have had a
soft spot in my heart for the Portuguese ever
since.
judging was to take place.
Willie's ball of string dwarfed all the other
entries. He was a shoo-in for First Prize.
Until the other contestants smelled
something fishy.
Well, not "fishy" exactly — but definitely
"off".
The German police were called. They
walked around Willie's ball sniffing
suspiciously. Then one of the officers
grabbed a loose end of string on the ball and
started tugging. Several hours later the ball
was unwound. And everybody knew two
new facts.
They knew why Willie's ball had grown so
prodigiously in the past few months, and
they knew the whereabouts of Mrs. Steiner.
Her mummified body was curled up in the
middle of the ball.
Wilhelm Steiner had murdered his wife,
following their last disagreement over ... his
string collection.
Willies is now at a new address, living in a
room too small to accommodate his beloved
ball of string — even if it wasn't Exhibit A in
his murder trial. He is reported to be very
depressed.
It's not the loss of his wife that bothers
him. It's not even the life prison term he
faces. What bugs Willie is the fact that he is
separated forever from his coveted ball of
string.
"Nothing matters to him, now that his
chance of being World String Collecting
Champion has been destroyed," says a police
inspector. "It was the only thing he ever
wanted to do."
This kindness paid interest. My first job
was as an instructor for NATO pilots. The
Portuguese, who tend to be resigned to the
fact that nobody bothers to. learn their
language, were delighted to find that one of
their instructors not only could but had lived
there as well.
There is the Anglican minister whom I
met while watching a cricket match in
Canterbury, England. He looked at the Swiss
flag flying from my bicycle (it was the
custom to fly a pennant when you went
cycling around Europe) and asked me if I
spoke English. I replied that I did and he
proceeded to try to explain cricket to me
(Not too successfully, I'm afraid. I'm still
confused).
Finally he asked me if I would like a tour
of the cathedral. I was delighted since I had
heard so much about it. He was at his best as
a tour guide and I came out feeling like an
expert on the building. He then said a short
prayer for me and sent me on my way.
The key thing about this is that these were
all people whom I did not know prior to
being shown the kindness, and whom I have
never seen since. How much more enjoyable
my life has been for all these acts.
At a time when government cutbacks
everywhere arc seldom, if ever, to be
reversed in the foreseeable future, what we
are going to need arc more acts of love to
our fellow men. Very few have not been
adversely affected in some way by the cuts;
what better time than this Christmas to
decide what we are going to do to alleviate
the situation.
The
Short
of it
By Bonnie Gropp
A time to enjoy
being with family
Oh, there's no place like home for the
holidays
And no matter how far away yourroam,
If you want to be happy in a million ways,
For the holidays you can't beat home
sweet home.
Home for the holidays. It's where we're
supposed to be, where we long to be.
Yet, interestingly enough, it is not always
as we hoped it would be.
An acquaintance recently remarked on
how much pressure we put on ourselves at
this time of year. We're spending money we
don't have to buy gifts we're not sure the
people on our ever-growing list will like. We
fill our already plugged timetables with
social events which, inevitably include at
least one family gathering, the most
anticipated part of the holidays.
The idea of being together with loved ones
is as much a part of Christmas as Aunt
Emma's fruitcake — and often just as
difficult to digest. The occasion offers us an
opportunity to be with all those near and
dear to us at the same time and in the same
room. Unfortunately, by the time the day is
over, we may have remembered why we no
longer live with them.
Don't misunderstand; I believe family is
everything and I adore each and every
member of mine. Generally we have a good
time when we're together, but at our worst,
moments can be ... uncomfortable. For other
families, however, situations arc more
intense, so that togetherness becomes a
breeding ground for the germs of ill will
rather than good will.
Perhaps difficulties arise because
expectations are always so high at this time
of year, that some expect too much of the
people they're with. The pressures and
demands often cause personalities, who
know each other well enough to let down
their guard, to bang head on.
This year I am the one to host Christmas
for my side of the family and I am eagerly
waiting to be with them. Yet, I know, too,
that when they leave there will probably be a
sense of let down; too little time to relax and
enjoy each other, too much said, too much
left unsaid. It is another day committed to
memory and another 365 days gone by.
Every year I look at this group of people
and ponder our similarities and our
differences. There are my parents, my
siblings, who knew who I was, and my
husband and children who know who I am.
While the former often take delight in
reminding of things I'd just as soon forget,
the latter occasionally delights in bringing
them up to date on things that again I'd
rather forget. Yet, I feel fortunate that these
stories are told without grudge, but rather in
love and familiarity.
It's sad to think of the people who do not
anticipate being with family for the holidays,
who know they will be spent in conflict and
powerplays. Of all the times of the year
Christmas should be the one when we forget
disappointments, past grievances and slights
and try to respect each other for who we arc
and who we have been. Look at those you
love, he grateful for their presence, and
enjoy their company.
And have a very Merry Christmas.
Arthur Black
International Scene
By Raymond Canon