I am not a collector of things. In fact, I really don’t understand collections, as being responsible for the maintenance of stuff overwhelms me. I am like a nomad – I have approximately zero things. I prefer to have experiences. I’d choose a half hour in the acrylic paints aisle of a crafts store with a complete stranger with a story to tell over a mint-condition record any day. However, I’m married to a Collector. Capital C. My husband collects: first-edition hardcover books, all in library bindings; DVDs of old movies and TV shows; music; art; camping equipment; Fiesta table settings; and comic books. And because I can be a bit of a buzzkill about it (we are two people who have outgrown a two-bedroom house), he likes to share his love of collecting with other people.
Yesterday, my little brother, The Baby, drove down to visit us and we took him to a local comic book store, where The Baby and The Husband spent over an hour scouring cardboard boxes for comics to complete specific series.
I, on the other hand, spent the hour 1) being drawn to George Harrison records before realizing that we don’t have a record player, and 2) feeling like I had stepped back in time and was digging through our brother The Middle Child’s bedroom in 1996.
The following is a photo retrospective of all the comic book store items The Middle Child owned when we were growing up:
On a related note, The Baby and I will be opening our own comic book store. We’re calling it “Garage.” Because it will be run entirely out of our parents’ garage.