What Is It About Junk?

Why can’t I resist picking up that rusty bit of something that got smashed on the Bank of America parking lot? It’s as if I dare not pass it up because it is a significant clue to a past event that posterity will surely want to know about.

I bend over and grasp it in excitement, and my mind briefly reels back imagining its history. OK, so it’s only piece of tin with small faded letters punched into it. But who owned it? How did it happen to drop to the ground? Did it come off their keychain? Was it attached to the shock absorbers of their car? Was it a zipper tab that got snagged off their jacket when it caught in the latch of their purse? What did those letters spell out? Humm….”L P”….

I have at least 3 see-through plastic containers filled with detritus labeled “Junk for Jewelry.” At night when I clean out my pockets, stuff like the mysterious L.P. metal bit gets eventually tossed into one of these bins. Months or even years later, when I sift through the debris with my fingers, sometimes those first imaginings return. More often, I re-invent stories for them as I pick them up individually and explore them close-up. None of these things really function any more. The old typewriter keys, amber with age, skin oil and abrasion, have left their usefulness far behind. How many yellowed old documents they pressed their “j” into still exist, I wonder? Who were the people who’ve left their smoothing touch on their surface? Are they still alive? What became their story? What busy hands fashioned the fingers on the bone hand? What language would they have understood?

I love everything about junk jewelry. I love its look. I love its honest and natural patina that came from age, use, and touch, not from a jar, can or stamp pad. I love its stories, both real and make-believe. I love its history. When I wear it, I become part of that history. I become a historical document, and my junk jewelry will eventually become a story about me for someone else to re-invent. Whether posterity will surely want to know that story, however, I can’t really say.