Some people collect expensive jewelry, artwork, or antiques. Mel had a few things she held particularly close, and at least two of them came from a husband whose gift purchasing strategy could best be described as questionable. One was a little pig figurine with a tuft of hair. The other was a gemstone necklace purchased with winnings from an unexpected stop on the Oregon Coast. Neither involved a tremendous amount of planning, but apparently I managed to do something right because she kept both of them.
Early in our relationship, Mel and I developed pet names for each other. I was Kermie, and she was Piggy. Yes, as in Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy. I’m sure a psychologist could have a field day with that information, but it worked for us. There was something wonderfully silly about it, and thirty-two years of marriage gave us plenty of opportunities to use those names in ways that would probably have made absolutely no sense to anybody else.
While we were still fairly early in our marriage, we visited the Sea Lion Caves on the Oregon Coast. If you’ve never been, it’s one of those places where you get to experience the beauty of the coastline and the unmistakable aroma of a large number of sea lions sharing an enclosed space. Somewhere in the gift shop, I spotted a little pig figurine with a tuft of hair. Given that my wife was affectionately known as Piggy, this seemed like a perfectly reasonable purchase. Romantic? Perhaps not by traditional standards. But then again, romance is a funny thing when your pet names come from the Muppets.
Mel kept that little pig. It wasn’t some expensive collectible or a piece of fine art. It was a goofy little object that connected to something the two of us shared. I liked that about her. She could appreciate a gift because of what it meant rather than what it cost, and apparently a pig with a questionable hairstyle was enough to earn a place among her treasured possessions.
The necklace had a different story, although the circumstances surrounding its purchase weren’t exactly conventional either. On another trip to the coast, we had planned to attend a timeshare presentation. Unfortunately, we managed to miss the presentation by a couple of hours, which is pretty impressive considering that showing up was essentially the whole point of the trip. Since we were already out there, we decided to put twenty dollars each into trying our luck at the casino and see what happened.
As it turned out, I won enough money to take us out to dinner and purchase a gemstone necklace from the gift shop. That’s the sort of outcome that makes a person feel particularly clever about a questionable decision. We’d missed the presentation, but somehow the day still ended with a nice meal and a gift for Mel. I wouldn’t recommend gambling as a reliable jewelry purchasing strategy, but on that particular occasion, it worked out pretty damn well.
She kept that necklace close, too. I can’t say for certain what went through her mind whenever she looked at it, but I knew it was something she valued. Maybe it reminded her of that unexpected afternoon together. Maybe she simply liked the necklace. Either way, it was one of those little things that remained important to her long after the day itself had passed.
The third keepsake was different.
Mel had a letter from her father, a man she never had the opportunity to meet. I don’t want to pretend I know everything that letter meant to her, because some things belong to the person who carries them, even within a marriage. But she kept it, and that alone tells me it was something worth holding on to.
When I think about those three things together, I’m struck by how different they were. A silly pig from a coastal gift shop, a necklace purchased after an unexpectedly lucky afternoon, and a letter from a father she never knew. One was playful, one came from a shared experience, and one connected her to a part of her own story that existed long before I became part of it.
I think that’s what makes keepsakes interesting. Their importance isn’t always obvious to somebody looking at them from the outside. You can pick something up and see a little ceramic animal or a piece of jewelry, without having the slightest idea why someone kept it for decades. Sometimes an object is valuable because of a memory, a person, or a story that can’t be purchased or replaced.
And I like that these three things tell us something about Mel without requiring me to explain every detail of who she was. She had a playful side, she valued moments we shared, and she held on to a connection to her own past. She was more than any single role she played in life, including being my wife.
That’s something I want to remember as I continue writing about her. I knew Mel for thirty-two years, but she had a whole life, history, and identity that belonged to her. There are stories she shared with me, stories we created together, and pieces of her life I could only understand through what she chose to tell me.
I’m glad she kept those things. They’re little reminders of moments and connections that mattered to her.
And I have to admit, there’s something pretty wonderful about knowing that, among the things she treasured, there was a pig with a tuft of hair that her Kermie bought her at the beach.
Not exactly something you’d find in a traditional romance novel.
But it was us.