I doubt there’s a light switch that once flipped makes one a collector. Like beer, it’s an acquired taste.
I never acquired a taste for beer. And in my youth, long ago, I worked construction for a number of years. Those guys crack open a six-pack at, oh, ten a.m.
Today, of course, not only are there entire magazines devoted to all things beer, the daily newspaper offers a weekly column. It’s part of the “news you can use” approach to journalism, I suppose.
Just how much is there to say about beer?
And I confess to my simplicity. I have precisely the same question about sports. (Speaking of which, is there no statute of limitations on the number of times an “instant replay” can be replayed? Six seems excessive. But after that, in my judgment, it’s moved from a misdemeanor to a felony.)
Have there been instances of conversion? That is, from no-beer to beer? What’s required to effect the change? Missionaries? Compliance with the mommy-taunt (“Try a little. A taste. Just try it!”)
Doubtless, there are those among us who feel as strongly about the behavior of collecting as I do about beer or sports.
And I continue to be mystified (while simultaneously fascinated) by the “process” or the “evolution” or whatever-it-is that some people go through in order to become collectors.
As I noted in an earlier blog: the girl who said “I have to find something to collect” seems on a journey to nowhere.
This week, in yet another bold act of eavesdropping, I overheard one woman say to her companion while strolling through a gigantic antiques co-op: “I haven’t fallen in love with anything yet.”
Hope springs eternal. “Yet,” she said.
Maybe this weekend I’ll get out a bottle of Rheingold, the kind with the cork inside the cap, and listen to the Brooklyn Dodgers on the radio.