RouletteWeekend

I have a shelf of oddities at my house. I’ve collected them over the years—small curiosities I’ve stumbled across and thought were worth keeping. They aren’t sacred, exactly, but every time I walk by, I take a peek and feel a little spark of happiness just knowing they’re there. Some pieces I remember vividly—where they came from, why I held onto them. Others are simply old, strange, or cool enough that I couldn’t let them go. Either way, they’re little pieces of my past, sitting quietly on a shelf.

This weekend, I hosted an estate sale for one of Will’s clients. The owner’s wife had passed away years ago, and after a couple of falls, his kids moved him into assisted living. They’d already taken the important things. The rest was left behind, and everything needed to be cleared out within the week. I volunteered to organize and run the sale so the family wouldn’t have to make another trip.

In the middle of sorting, I found a little shelf full of oddities. It reminded me of my own. To anyone else, they might have looked like nothing—just dried sticks and bits of driftwood lined up without order. But I could tell they once mattered to someone. From what I gathered, the late wife was artistic and eclectic, and these were probably hers. I like to think that every time she walked past that shelf, she smiled, remembering where each piece came from.

I had a hard time boxing them up for strangers to overlook. Instead, I tucked them into a box of my own and brought them home. Now they sit on one of my shelves, a quiet reminder of the day I helped pack up someone else’s life as they turned the page to their next chapter.

Some of her driftwood pieces were mounted on little pedestals with the locations carefully written on them—details I didn’t notice until I got them home. I thought that was such a lovely touch. I’ve never done that. My style is more chaotic: I just find something, bring it home, and wedge it into whatever space is open. I don’t always remember where they came from, only why I thought they were cool. Like the rock that looks like it should be heavy but is deceptively light. Or the hole-riddled rock I swear fell from space. Or the rusted needle I found on the beach, the possible remnant of a 100-year-old lapel pin.

There’s no practical reason to keep these things. One day, when my kids are clearing out my life, they’ll probably look at my shelf and think, “Mom collected the weirdest shit.” And then they’ll toss it. Maybe the oddities will end up back in nature, or maybe they’ll be sealed away in a box that doesn’t get opened for fifty years, like some forgotten Jumanji relic.

And that’s fine. These little treasures were mostly for me. They didn’t have to matter to anyone else. But if someday, after I’m gone, someone stumbles across them, smiles, and decides to keep one for themselves, that’ll be enough.