Well Travelled Scraps Of Paper

Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful,

we must carry it with us,

or we find it not.

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

As I near the end of my musings on the things we love, I find myself thinking about one of my humblest collections. It is not valuable nor is it made up of rare or particularly unique items. What makes it special, is the way it has been built. Almost entirely made up of what are essentially scraps of paper that have been chosen and delivered by others. Family members, friends, students – from the past and the present – who sent simple messages from wherever they were. Sharing their lives and their experiences.

Postcards are part of an area of collecting that is always referred to as ephemera on programs like the Antiques Roadshow. Memorabilia that were intended to have a short life, usually involving text and paper of some sort. And yet, here they are covering the walls of a room in our home, continuing to offer entertainment and start conversations. This room is used primarily as a waiting space for my students when they are early for lessons, or biding time while a sibling is having their turn. More than one child has asked about where these postcards are from, or who sent them. More than one shy new kid has been engaged in a conversation about some place they have heard of or visited. More than one has carefully written down my address prior to a family vacation with a promise to send something for me to stick to the wall. What started as a cheap and easy bit of décor, has proved itself useful in all sorts of ways. Useful in that sometimes challenging task of making a child feel comfortable.

The oldest postcard I have was written by my grandmother to her brother in the late 1960s. She and my grandfather travelled from Manitoba to Germany to visit my family when I was a baby. I don’t know why I have this postcard. I recently found it in a box of bits, and it is quite a treasure. It is a picture of a landmark near where I was born – a place I have not visited since. A place we were booked to visit last summer, prior to one of the many pandemic cancellations that we have all experienced. There are a few things about this postcard that I relish. I love how she begins with, “Dear Loved Ones!” Such a charming exclamation to begin a rather routine description of things – including that the visit had been long enough, although they “will miss the children” (I’d guess those two things might be related in some way, toddlers being who they are). I also love that she writes at the top, “I will collect these cards” as though the receiver of this little gift is merely a caretaker of a part of her collection. And that is, perhaps, the only reason it has found a home with me now. Written with my grandmother’s hand. A reminder of her spirit, my origins, family and places. This small piece of paper filled with memory.

I don’t know how many postcards I have. There are certainly hundreds. More than one student has counted them over the years, but it is an everchanging collection. I also have no idea of how many countries are represented. Many. A quick look revealed representatives from North America, Central America, South America, Europe, Africa and Asia. I suppose Antarctica is asking too much, but I’m not sure what happened with Australia? When I consider how much of this planet has been visited by people who wander through my home, or are friends who have sent me cards, I am really quite impressed. What a wealth of experiences is covering my walls. Some of these postcards have little bits of peoples’ stories, some don’t. But all of them will trigger a memory for someone. All of them represent the vastness of our world – its beauty, its cultures, its climate, its art, its people. Taking a moment to consider that as I look at these photos reminds me of how much I’ve seen, and how little I’ve seen. It reminds me that I am small. That I am only one amongst many. That my eyes see my view, and others see theirs. That finding the views other eyes see creates more than a wall of pictures – it creates a wall of understanding. A wall full of windows. Full of colour. Full of life.

I can’t possibly mention every person that has ever sent a postcard, but there is one that kind of stands out. My friend Marlene is the kind of person that has friends at every turn, all over the world. She has been an educator and traveller. She has welcomed new Canadians, taught them English and embraced them as if they were her family. It also just so happens that she grew up in the same block as where my grandparents lived (the aforementioned postcard collector). She has been quite generous in her postcard contributions over the past few years, often sending me found treasures, postcards picked up here and there that had yet to be sent – some from as far back as the 1970s. My favourite might be the one that arrived enclosed in an envelope, in the interest of propriety (you guess which one it is!). She may not realize this, but knowing that there is someone out there who, when they happen across some old thing in a drawer or box, thinks to pass it on with a little note, is a very powerful thing. It is powerfully encouraging. Receiving these cards out of the blue conjures up feelings of being valuable and important enough to warrant the effort. Small pieces of paper, huge gifts.

The past fifteen months of the pandemic have been difficult. There is so much in our lives that has been put on hold. So many connections that have been limited. So many ordinarily shared events spent alone. Somehow through all of this, connections remain. Some friendships have flourished – grown beyond what they were before. I am continually astounded by the depth of support I have found in what has been among the most challenging times of my life. One thing that has been steadfast is the expressions of encouragement I have received. And one way I have received these bits of joy, are through postcards. Recently Canada Post launched a free postcard campaign to encourage Canadians to send just these kinds of wishes to each other. Imagine my disappointment at not receiving mine – I would have loved to send one to an unsuspecting long lost relative. But, I have three lovely friends who sent me theirs. The first came with a heartwarming message. Well, at least they sent it. The second came with a complete understanding of how I am the only one on the planet not looking forward to the return of random hugging.

The final one came with a long list of words. These words are important and they are special. For many, many days at the beginning of the pandemic, my dear friend Emily and I exchanged words. Every day for months. A word was sent, a response returned. Those first few months were difficult, for many reason. Some days the words were alone. No conversation surrounded them. Others they turned into long chats. But they carried us through a very strange and lonely and disappointing and scary time. They were only words, but what they conveyed was the kind of care that exists simply. Sent back in a list on a postcard marking the one year anniversary of the start of all of this – a gift documenting the power of ephemeral things. The words we write, the words we speak. They are simultaneously fleeting and permanent. They are who we are.

Pieces of paper. Scraps. Some are torn or bent. Some are faded, some look brand new. Some have long messages, some have single words. They show nature and cities and scenery and art and museums and humour. They tell stories in many ways. They open eyes and tweak memories. They are a collection of insignificance and meaning wrapped up in one. They continue to offer entry into worlds I’ve seen, and worlds I haven’t; start conversations and capture imaginations; conjuring up images of those who sent them. Perhaps this is what collections are for and, perhaps, why I am a collector.