Napkin collection

Way, way back in The Beforetime we did not use scrapbooking as a verb. The compilation of scrapbooks was not a trendy and expensive hobby. It was a compulsory archival duty of all female children over the age of six. Newspaper clippings, party invitations, blue ribbons, and report cards were all adfixed into fat albums of black paper with rubber cement or white paste. Black and white Kodak snapshots were added with little lick and stick photo corners.






Maybe because we had so much less stuff generally, or maybe because "special" events were so rare and spread out as to be truly special, we saved momentos of the slightest occasion or diversion. Unlike recent generations, our itty-bitty self-esteems weren't being perpetually inflated with pink and sparkly atta-girls, so we saved any schoolwork with a twinkly star drawn by our teacher (our school PTAs didn't spend fortunes on stickers and other "classroom incentives".) Much of childhood was an exercise in oral history not unlike the retelling of Homer's "Odyssey" and "one potato, two potato" to each new generation, so we hoarded the visual evidence of our existence.

Small children were allowed at any neighborhood event as long as we didn't pick our noses, stick our fingers in the cake frosting, or otherwise disrupt the proceedings. Indeed, we took our responsibilities as honored young observers and civilized-persons-in-training at least as seriously as the papal representative to the United Nations, and the runner-up to Miss America. How else were we going to learn to play those shower games and swallow sour punches made with pineapple juice, pink lemonade, and Sprite after eating frosted cupcakes?

These were the Napkin Years. Most girls had a department store gift box filled with commemorative napkins under their bed. Attending any special event required keeping your paper napkin spotless for archiving. Sugar packets were added to note the rare meal in a restaurant. When your grandmother bought you an Andes Mint after supper at Larry's Cafe in McCook, you might preserve the green foil wrapper. If you had the good fortune to have your father go out of town on business, you could add little cocktail swords and umbrellas to your collection. Poking your little brother with the cocktail sword would result in summary loss of all accumulated napkins and twinkly stars, but it was still a strong temptation.

My napkin collection is long gone. I can find only four in my scrapbooks. Three are from weddings printed in silver:

Crys and Jim

Catherine and Frank

Jan and Bill

The fourth napkin is from Fred and Effa Dale's fiftieth wedding anniversary. That oppressive New Years weekend spent holed up in a McCook motel right there on Highways 6 and 34, wearing itchy new clothes and dreading a command piano inferiority performance with cousins I barely knew would have stayed in my memory even without the napkin.

I don't have many personal convictions about an afterlife. I do strongly believe that there is a circle in Hell for hostesses who force guests to play moronic games at wedding and baby showers. There is no question that every adult who ever coerced a child into performing at a piano recital against her will has an eternity ahead in Hades. I'm sure Dante would back me on this.



© 2008 Nancy L. Ruder