When I was little I used to love finding sparkly things. I'd collect glass from the streets and every now and again I'd run into a real treasure - a rhinestone that would fall out of someone's costume jewelry. That only happened - I want to say - three times in my childhood, but it was monumental every time.
Quite a few years back I was cruising the streets of St. Petersburg, Russia, and enjoying the nooks and crannies of my favorite world city. During one of those escapades I stumbled upon a tiny little shop - not even a shop, more like a hole in the wall with no-BS-looking men behind the counter.
And that hole was like a treasure chest in itself.
It was tiny, it was rugged, it was filled with unrefined, unshined, story-filled treasures. Some of the treasures were found, a lot of them were brought to be sold. Old accordions, very old records from before LPs existed, monocles, vintage binoculars, porcelain figurines my grandma used to have in her pinewood chest, trinkets from my childhood, little icons that were not allowed to be displayed in the 70+ years, way before their creation.
I was in awe. I could spend hours in that tiny little room. And I think I might have.
The no-BS bearded men had enough time around me to warm up. Glimpses of smiles started to appear. They appreciated my appreciation. They were there not for money - everything was priced crazy-low - they were there to pass on the experience of the times lived. I actually believe they would not sell it to you if you were there for the money. It was a beautiful, beautiful experience.
I walked away with quite a few things, but the one object that sticks around for me are the binoculars. Nothing had "history notes" to it, but these were probably pre-World War II, most likely WWI. They had the beautiful green rusty patina around them and one of the sides was missing the leather covering they used to clothe them with.
They were just perfect. And they still worked!
Something about those binoculars reminded me of my grandpa. He was my favorite. And I was his.
He was quiet and kind, but he also had a very sad part to him. Every now and again he'd have to lock himself in a dark and cool room that was his, with layers and layers of books on the wall. And he'd go quiet. And allhad to be quiet.
He fought in the war, went through concentration camps and then through the Gulag. He didn't have it easy and neither did his small family after the war. It took decades to piece pieces of himself together, and the darkness never left.
And yet, he'd find joy in me and my childhood silliness.
He'd allow me to do things others wouldn't, he allowed me to explore, and be myself, as "myself" as I wanted to be. He allowed me to go through the attic - completely free - and pick anything and everything there. He'd have me in his wood workshop and teach me how to work with wood, and be safe with nails, and use the tools that were only meant to be used by "men." He assigned "jobs" to me that he knew that I could do but the ones that were not fit for a "girl."
He was awesome. And the binoculars that I found are so HIM.
I've been thinking about those binoculars lately. About what makes an object worth finding, worth keeping, worth remembering. The story-filled ones carry so much energy, and history, and power with them that they can influence the course of your life. Or year, or month, or day.
Our next Stories We Carry is about found objects. If you have one of those, I'd love love to hear about it.
With much Aloha,
Olga @YelloBirdie and Stories We Carry