The Collector
Pretty little pieces of gummed paper
Everyone who knew him was aware my father was a stamp collector. Binders upon binders of meticulously curated stamps lined the bookcases in every home he lived in, and he loved to show them to any remotely interested person. If he met someone new, he always asked if they might have stamps. It was a great icebreaker. He wondered if they had stamps from whatever country they or their relatives were from.
“No relatives? Well, maybe you have friends.”
Everywhere he went, people saved stamps for him. His friends, the bank teller, his priest, shop owners and the family doctor all saved stamps for him. Even on trips to the hospital emergency room, and there were plenty of those due to several falls in his ninth decade, his main preoccupation was asking the nurses and doctors if they had any stamps. What doctor could keep a charming nonagenarian in the hospital for further examination when he deflected the questions about his health and how he fell and, instead, cheerfully asked about stamps. It was a great get-out-of-jail strategy.
He cut off the stamps on the corners of all letters he received and soaked the little squares of paper in water-filled plastic containers to soften the adhesive. Carefully removing each stamp with special long tweezers or tongs, he placed them between sheets of…
