The Year of the Pack Rat

Always be prepared. Isn't that the Boy Scout motto? (I wouldn't know, of course, having never been a Boy Scout, but you do pick up these sorts of catchphrases now and again.) From my limited knowledge and nonexesitent personal experience, it appears that the way the scouts stay prepared is by getting together monthly to practice tying and untying knots, and selling popcorn door to door. Better than the Girl Scouts, I suppose - at least nutritionally speaking - but it still doesn't prepare them to do anything more than handle a hostage situation at a movie theater concession stand. ("Jimmy - you untie those knots while Bobby and I sell popcorn. I knew those monthly den meetings would pay off someday!")

No, in my world, rope tricks and carbohydrates don't count as preparation. I'm a saver. A keeper. A hoarder of goods. Saucepan with a broken lid? You never know when you might need that. Half a yard of fuscia muslin? Might come in handy someday. Dresser wtih the broken drawer? It'll make a good fixer-upper project. It's not that I want to keep stuff, you understand, so much as I feel that I must. You see, I inherited collectivitus, though the trait runs more in my father's side of the the family than my mother's. I am hoping there is some sort of genetic treatment - something intricate and expensive, no doubt, that involves radioactive dyes and spliced and modified DNA - that will enable my children to live a normal life. In fact, I'm sure I've read an article about it in one of the magazines I have stacked in my garage somewhere.... Come on medical science - don't let me down!

The worst part about it is the stigma that comes when people who misunderstand the disorder start in with the name calling. It was one thing when I was a wee little pack-ratling and my parents shielded me from the taunts. Now, however, I see the raised eyebrows when I buy my fifth "dollar box" at the local auction house, and hear the bemused checkout person ask, "what in the world is she going to do with all of THOSE?" after I've grab my bags to leave a store. Why can't they recognize that this is a disorder? Why can't they be more undertstanding? Why can't they see that my habit represents my optimism about life? My upbeat attitude about all things? My ability to find the good in even the everyday bits that others might think of as trash? The world needs more of that. Humanity needs more of that. After all, I may be unable to throw away a worn-out flashlight , but I am also never going to throw away a worn-out friend.

My grandmother lived through the Great Depression. She saves styrofoam meat trays and twist ties. They may pile up from time to time, but I never lacked for art supplies and Fairy Boats during the long summer hours I spent at her house when I was a kid. My dad is a tinkerer, and has whole buildings full of treasures. The wind howled around the eaves and the doors gaped widely, but my daddy always had the right sized wheel or wingnut, blade or barn board, pane or pliers for the projects we did together. Now, my children are building meat tray doll houses and cobbled contraptions. I may wince at the thought of having genetically doomed my daughters to a life of collecting (well, that and large feet - sorry girls), but  I'm going to keep my focus on the inherit creativity and preparation that comes with the territory.

After all, I'm pretty sure the Chinese Zodiac has a whole year devoted to the Pack Rat. Beady eyes and nasty tails aside, there must be traits of the rat that are worth celebrating if they have a whole year devoted to them, right!? Yes, I think I remember something about rats being crafty and clever, and ... um.... hang on a  minute, let me go get that placement I saved from the Peking Buffet dinner last  May. I know it's around here somewhere...