This is probably going to come as a surprise to most of you, but in case you don’t already know it, the Boy likes trains.
There. I said it.
The Boy is a train fan.
I do not think there is a 12-step program for this kind of thing. What there is, is something called the train show.
You go, and there are clubs with their layouts set-up and running. There are people selling stuff that will either become your train, lengthen your train, help you run your train, or announce that you like trains.
And, this is the crazy part, people pay for the privilege of just going to these events – as in they pay admission. And then they buy stuff. And then they buy food, because walking into one of these shows is like walking into a black hole. Some never emerge unscathed. For bigger events, some of these people get hotel rooms and stay for a night or more. And all throughout the event there are people wearing t-shirts and caps that say something about trains, or have train logos on them. There are people – often the same ones – carrying the booty they found and purchased among the tables of train stuff. A lot of money changes hands and it’s all legal.
Afterward, if you’re a member of a train club or with a group of people, you pack it all up and go someplace to eat and … talk about trains. Or go to somebody’s house and stand around looking at their layout in progress. Talking about trains.
The worst part is, some of the long-time club members have stuff they want to get rid of, but instead of donating it or throwing it away, they offer it to the Boy, who is inclined to take it.
Someday I’ll show you a picture of his fire-trap of a bedroom and you’ll understand why, when a club member offers old magazines to the Boy, I’m bellowing “NO!” before they finish the sentence. Tragically, I’m not always there to refuse their “kind” offer which is primarily done to assuage their pack-rat tendencies by passing on their unwanted stuff to another unwitting party. Namely me.
Just because they give it to the Boy, doesn’t mean that I don’t have to live with it too. Dammit.
Have some compassion, you crazy collectors!
I did agree to take some stacks of magazines on the contingency that the giver build a library onto our house to store them.
But I did let the Boy keep a catalogue.
Because that’s the kind of mom I am.