This is a story about things inherited. Well….passed down. I suppose “inherited” means the individual who previously owned it has died, and that is not the case here.
We who have/have had or have worked in an office know that trinkets can usually be found in such places. A little plant here, a picture frame there, a signiture coffee mug, etc. My wife currently adorns her cubicle with family pictures, a large chunk of Amethyst, and a “Dancing Groot” figurine. My parents these days usually adorn their home office desk with stacks of books they are currently reading and a picture here and there. And after yesterday, having cleaned the apartment considerably and setting up a little office space, I have a space to decorate as well.
So now comes the decision making process, especially considering I only have a small-ish table to work with, as to what gets put on the desk. A picture of my wife will certainly go up, but thats the nice thing about working from home, that kind of picture can go directly to the wall. No need to have a picure of the little one, i’m a SAHD and she is always there with that pretty little face. So what, then? I can’t have nothing. These little things remind us of, not just home, but also to keep yourself centered throughout your day so you don’t go insane. Good news, I found the answer in a box.
One of my earliest memories is being in my Dad’s office at the Camp when I was a little kid. I didn’t spend a whole lot of time there, but when I did I was usually playing with something. Whether it be a random piece of paper or a misplaced screwdriver, there were no limits to what I could do with it considering the vastness of my imagination. There was always a staple though. Not an ACTUAL staple, although i’m sure there were some around, but I mean a regular piece to the whole setting that I will always remember. There was a set of small, 1x1000ths sized, Volkswagon Beetles. Little cars with doors and hood that opened, plastic interior, and one of those spring loaded devices inside so you could pull it backwards and release it, sending it speeding towards a set of toes with an unfortuate immediate future.
A key feature of these little “V-Dubs” was their rubber, removable tires. I mention that they are removable because at the time I was going through the phase of “this looks neat, lemme shove it in my mouth”. This led my father to be concerned that I would not only choke, but loose these little tires as my brothers had done with previous models. They were off-limits, so naturally, I played with them any possible chance that my Dad wasn’t around.
There were four or five if i remember correctly but now, at least in my house, there is just one. One little black dusty Beetle with Pink Floyd-esque stripes on both sides and Pentagram’s on the wheels. Luckily, all four tires have been preserved. Hopefully I’ll be able to keep it that way, because no sooner had I, with a glimmer of love, set it on my desk, than my daughter had come up to play with it.
Before I knew it the word “No” was said from somewhere, as if my father were standing in a corner, carefully watching over his little VW. The command came from my mouth of course, in what I consider upon reflection, a tradition passed from Dad to Son.
And if it’s lucky enough to survive this kid, perhaps it can be from Dad to Daughter sometime.