A Woman Needs Her Things

 My name is Meg. And I’m a hoardaholic. There. I’ve said it. And put it in print for all to know. Yes, it’s true -- I have a passion for collecting things.  My condition is not genetically predisposed. The only things my Mother collected were her thoughts. So why I’m cursed with this obsessive disorder, I’ll never know.

 A few years ago I thought I’d kicked the habit. Rehab came in the form of moving from one house to another. It was a 28-day stint when I purged, and purged and purged myself of vast amounts of small stuff.  I actually filled one of those industrial size dumpsters from WastePro and had enough left for a two day Moving Sale.

 The sale, which was beautifully orchestrated by three of my favorite friends, Sara Arnold, Nita Woodruff and Betty DeVore, racked up a huge amount of “dough”  (the sum of which I can’t reveal for fear the IRS would surely come after me!) Shoppers paid real money for my collections of watermelons, costume jewelry, antique Tea Leaf Luster dinnerware… and other possessions I knew I could live without.

 Then alas, one stint in rehab would only last a few months, and bingo! I strayed back to the same old habits of creating collections. My “debris,” as my husband calls it, fills not only my home but my heart as well. I treasure these silly assemblages of things as much as I do my wedding ring. On any given day you might run into me diligently scouring the wares at Athens Antiques Mall, at Five Points, or .

 It all started when I was young, with paper dolls and Ginny Dolls. I moved on to my teenage phase with McMullen blouses and Pappagallo shoes from . I even stockpiled Revlon nail polish (every color of the rainbow including yellow). I was, however, forced to stop this particular collection when my Daddy got the bill one month and it had way too many tickets from the cosmetic department, signed by his little darling Megpie.

 Time moved on, and I put away childish things. I began collecting real big-girl stuff like English Staffordshire dogs, antique paper machier trays and Gucci scarves.  Then divorce and budget constraints forced me to abandon pricey items so I settled on more ordinary things – teeny-tiny shells from the beach at Sanibel Island, vintage handkerchiefs, cribbage boards, perfume bottles (Shalimar and Wind Song playing the starring roles of this cast), turtles and anything with a cherry motif.

 I have a good friend, Mimi Childs from Columbus, who was preparing for a visit from her daughter, a career girl in New York City, and her sophisticated Yankee boyfriend. She spent weeks cleaning and clearing lest she be tagged a Southern Hoarder.  I mean, y’all, this is proof that a gracious, Southern hostess will go all out to make a good first impression.

 There’s even a show on TV all about hoarders. But trust me, I’m not like those folks that fill their rooms with stacks of old newspapers and polystyrene fast food take out containers. I have my little sets displayed so that I can enjoy them each and every day. My “tabletop pollution” is a source of pride for me. And unlike those that collect fine art, exotic wines, priceless coins or stamps, they don’t speak of wealth, but rather of the whimsy that embodies the collector.

 If you’ve ever seen the classic movie “The Quiet Man” with John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara, you’ll understand the importance of a lady’s “things.” It capsules the innate desire of a woman wanting to have her things about her. The message surely rings true with me.

 I once gave a collection of antique and vintage tins to a treasured friend. I had spent years accumulating the rusty old containers, and even though the monetary value of the gift was minimal, its worth was immeasurable to me. A gift from my heart. Seems silly, but oh so true.

 My friend, Margie McClung knows all about my addiction, and she freely adds to my debris each year. She recently sent me a book – Living with the Things You Love, by Monica Rich Koosan. It is a reminder that my passion for collecting is shared by many others. I have the book atop a miniature dressing table given to me by another friend, Janie Bush. Also there – my perfume bottles.

 Don’t know what in the world will happen to all of my baggage when I leave this world. My children certainly have no interest in any of it. My good friend and neighbor Nancy Zechella, a fellow sorority sister of Alpha Delta Hoarda, reminded me that her daughter Elizabeth came all the way from New York City to assist in cleaning the backyard shed…took one look and called a hauler to come and dispose of the whole shebang! “This new generation just doesn’t want it,” she said. And I concur. Too bad, because I’ve had so much fun creating my collections.

 And so it goes – I feel better now making this public declaration. And I admit, I’m not cured. On the contrary, I remain obsessed. Because, you see, I’ve discovered the power of EBay. Ye gods and little fishes!!! A hoarder’s paradise. But that’s a whole other story.

Note: Are you a fellow hoardaholic? I’d love to know what others find collectible. Send me an email -- United we stand!