I told you I collect bottles. I also collect shot glasses.
I know, shot glass collections aren’t anything original or unique. But I’ve been working on my collection for a long time, and I’m picky about the shot glasses I get.
I don’t just get any old shot glass from any old place. It has to be meaningful and significant in some way. Otherwise I’d have a million dumb shot glasses from places like Six Flags Over Texas or Round-up Pete’s New Mexico Gas Depot.
Nope, I try to be pretty intentional about what I collect. Especially now, knowing how many collections I have going. I just don’t have the space for endless assortments of insignificant trinkets.
So . . . the shot glasses. I decided when I first started collecting them that I would only get glasses from places where a significant event happened. That could be a significant social gathering/event like a wedding, or a significant conversation, or a significant life moment, or a significant destination.
Since much of my life, like anyone’s, is made up of mostly humdrum moments with a scattering of significant ones, it seemed a pretty reasonable way to pursue a collection.
So now I have maybe a hundred shot glasses, and each one does represent something special or meaningful.
I just realized that I don’t collect shot glasses from places where negatively meaningful things happen. In other words, I did not get a shot glass from the Wannahawkaloogie Court House on the date of my divorce. Or from the Lewis J Smedes funeral home after the services for my nephew. Or from Pratt County Millhouse on the day that I lost my job.
I don’t want to have memories of events like that. Probably some shrinks or 12-step groups would say there is something cathartic or healingly reminding in negative situations that are remembered, but I don’t care. That’s not for me.
I have three shot glasses from my second honeymoon. I mean, the second time I got married and I went on a honeymoon, I got some shot glasses.
I got the shot glasses because some really cool things happened on that trip, and not just because it was a honeymoon.
Our honeymoon was to the Cinqueterre area of the Italian coastline. We stayed in a little private villa in Riomaggiore. The villa was glued to the side of the steep mountain (along with all the other houses and villas) and had this incredible sweeping view of the Adriatic Sea. It was like a gem, most days—an incredible blue that shimmered like it was alive.
One day in Riomaggiore, we went down to a café at the bottom of the mountain for a coffee. There in that café, as we were sipping our coffee, I overhead a conversation. It was another couple, tourists, but not obnoxious ones.
To make a long story short, overhearing that conversation led to another conversation, and I found out that the guy of the couple was my brother. I didn’t even know I had a brother until that trip.