Badges for life
My parents were pillars of their community and our house was very much a focal point for local fun and fundraising activities. When I was small, it seemed to me that every day folks swung by to chat about this or that with my mum or dad. Our living room, the hallowed space where I worshipped TV, faced the street. I had, therefore, the greatest vantage point to observe approaching guests.
"Halt!" I'd cry, opening the window. "Who goes there?"
Most of the time I already knew, but I liked the phrase, and the attention. It was my ritual, and patience with my shenanigans was a prerequisite for entry. My favourite visitors were the ones who properly played along. A chap named Stanley always had a joke for me. He'd pay tribute with a laugh and I'd bid him welcome, bellowing his arrival throughout the house as he approached the front door.
Then there was dear old Harry, a kindly old gent who I think saw in me the spark of a kindred spirit. In his youth, Harry was something of a collector, with badges being the objects of his affection. As if by magic, then, he took to passing them along to me, one or two at the window, every time he came to the house. It quickly became a thing, and soon I had a small box of pinned treasures, not all of which were from Harry, as I'd let it slip that badges were now the keys to my heart, and the means by which access could be gained to our house without fuss or a fight. And lo, my stock did grow... As did my obsession.
Americans! I'm talking about pins.
Author: Marshall Julius