I’m not a collector. Seriously. I don’t collect anything at all. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a lot of stuff, I do. Way more stuff that I need, definitely way more stuff than I use. But I don’t have any collections. I’m rather an anomaly because of it–most people collect something. My dad collected coins. My sister, PJ collects purple glassware and some kind of pink pottery and angels and milk glass. Sister Kate used to collect baskets, but I’m not sure she still does. Husband collects tools, but not because he’s a collector, rather because he uses a lot of different tools. A pal at the lake collects Longaberger products like baskets and pottery and friend CL collects Heisey glass.
This weekend, I got caught up in a discussion about collecting with another lake friend, who is an avid collector of glassware. She told me about her glass collection and how there are boxes in the garage and cabinets and display cases all over her house filled with it. She looked rather askance when I confessed to not being a collector. Even more askance when I mentioned that I was a ruthless tosser. I am able to throw just about anything away. Not because I don’t respect material possessions or lack a sense of sentimentality. It’s simply that I crave clean palettes and tidy surfaces. And also because, frankly, I’m lazy. If I collect something, I’ve got to dust it. No thanks.
But somehow, over the years, I’ve always had pigs in my kitchen. I’m not sure how that started—I think it might have been with a pig cutting board that Husband’s dad made in junior high school. That little pig came to us because we bought Husband’s grandfather’s house from his parents, and wee wooden pig still lived there. I hung him on the wall and pretty soon, I began getting gifts of pigs for my kitchen. For many years, the pigs seemed appropriate to me. My body image sucked (still does somewhat) and I always told people that I identified with the pigs in my kitchen. When we built our current home, 30 years ago—the pigs came along and got hung on the walls in the new house. Even when I switched from American country to more Country French decor, I left the pigs on the walls.
Today, as I’ve been restoring order to my house after the big downstairs renovation, I found my kitchen pigs, all packed in a cardboard box. I began unwrapping them and realized I no longer want the pigs on my walls. I’m over the pigs, mostly because I’m trying so very hard to be over the bad body image that those pigs represent for me. So, all the pigs are going to the barn sale at the lake, and I’m sticking with my new Provence/Tuscany kitchen—country French, maybe a little northern Italy. I don’t even think I’m going to miss the little fellers.
Nope. the new bolder Nan, the woman who’s been to Paris, who’s written three novels and has a fourth in the works, the Nan who owns her own editorial services company, and has started dressing to show off her curves instead of covering up her body—that Nan is over the whole pig thing. She’s looking forward to the release of two new novels this year, a glorious summer at the lake, picking up more editing work, and getting to know Grandboy better, as well as discovering delicious new and healthy dishes to prepare in her new kitchen. Whatever gets hung on the walls in this gorgeous kitchen, I can guarantee you it won’t be pigs!