the collector

“Been picking posies?” the man with the 5 o’clock shadow hollered across the room at my son. He had just entered with his latest finds in wild flowers growing at the refinery where he works this summer.
“I guess I did look strange holding those flowers, Mom.” He laughed as he told me about it. “Beside I was wearing my turquoise backpack holding my books to read during breaks and my handbook on Arkansas wildflowers.” Being teased did not bother him, he picked more posies. Sipping coffee is not as important to him as studying nature.
Natural wonders have intrigued him since he was able to see over the display tables at a community craft show. “Here is the five dollars for the check your grandmother sent for your birthday.” I handed him and his brother their cash as we entered the craft and hobby show.
Because they were too young to shop alone, I led them toward tables covered with children’s novelties, toys and candy. My oldest quickly found and purchased a monkey made out of socks with red heels. My budding nature lover pulled me beyond the toys and candy to a table covered with sea shells. He was eye level with beautifully polished sea shells. Disregarding the collection of antique toys and wooden pop guns beside him, he carefully selected an unusual sea shell.
“You do? No toys?”
His eyes were fixed on that shell, he shook his head, “No, I want that.” He pointed to the sea shell.
The lady took his money, sacked it for him and we were done shopping. When the collector sets his mind, nothing dissuades him. “Guess how many books I have purchased since being here?” my bibliophile announced last summer while visiting Rochester, N.Y.
“No idea.”
“Thirty-six, for a little over a hundred dollars total.”
“Wow! Must have found a good used book store,” I did not ask how he was going to carry them all home on the airplane. That was his problem. He would figure it out just as he figured it out at the end of his first year of church camp. He did not bring home crafts. He brought home all the special rocks. I nearly dislocated my arm when I picked up his suitcase to put it in the car.
Rocks still intrigue him. Last week, his work clothes tumbled in the dryer with loud thunks against the dryer wall – courtesy of a very clean rock in the pocket of his jump suit.
I pulled him aside later. “Do you realize you had a rock in the pocket of your uniform?”
“Oh yeah. I forgot. Was it sulfur?”
“No, it was a red rock.”
“That one looked different, so I picked it up. I’ll try to remember to check my pockets before I wash my uniforms.
In August he leaves to live in a small bedroom he has rented near his grad school in Indiana. If he finds any more rocks, flowers or books on his walks, storing them is his problem. If he leaves them all there, that’s fine with me: We have about run out of shelf and closet space for his collections.