The Accidental Collector Part 1: The End of Pigs

Does anyone really set out to become a collector?  I sure didn’t.  In my fifty-eight years on the planet, I have accidentally come to preside over two separate collections, one of pigs and one of nativity scenes.  This post will cover the former.  And it’s possible that there will be a second post that will cover the latter.

The first accidental collection started when I was about 12 and became enamored with actual pigs and pic facsimiles.   While I never desired a collection, I liked everything about pigs.  Word got out and by the time I entered my freshman year of college, people had begun to give me not only stuffed pigs but pig salt and pepper shakers, pig placemats, piggy strings of lights, all of it.  At some point, without setting an intention, without wanting particularly wanting it to happen, I had transitioned from someone who likes pigs to becoming a pig collector.  

When I was a person who merely liked pigs, it really didn’t matter what kind of pig item people gave me and it didn’t matter how I stored it or whether I displayed it.  But the moment I became a pig collector, I now was in possession of enough pigs that I did not want people to give me run-of-the-mill pig items.  I wanted precious, unique pigs, pigs I could get nowhere else.  The problem is that back then, there was no internet and no way for anyone else to easily discern what was a proper gift to a pig collector.  

And display of the pigs was ALWAYS a problem.  At the height of my pig collection, I was in my late twenties.  We didn’t yet own a house.  The house we rented was of modest size and nothing we owned lent itself to proper display of a pig collection, whatever that might be.  Knowing that we’d only have to move it to whatever home we did eventually plan to buy, we were in no mood to invest in any of the large unwieldy pieces that might have enough compartments and glass to lend themselves to pig display.  

I was done with it.  Before we moved, I threw an “end of pigs” party to announce to all our friends that I was no longer into pigs and they were no longer to give them to me.  Fortunately, the “end of pigs” party concept was a huge draw.  Unfortunately, that forced me to make additional pig-related purchases.  I was particularly thrilled by a stamp I found with a pig’s butt on it.  Everyone who entered the party was greeted by me wearing a pig snout and carrying the stamp and an ink pad so that I could stamp their hand with a pig’s butt and say “get it, end of pigs?!”  

Whatever else happened, I remember this as an amazing party although its possible that I’m conflating with another we threw in that house where the pizza took forever to come and all we had was vodka and Madonna videos for a very long time.

Recently, about 30 years later,  I found behind the Christmas boxes the “End of Pigs” party box (correctly labeled).  In it was a dried ink pad but not the stamp, a string of broken pig lights and a large wind-up pig or two.  I threw it all out.  You heard me.  Not composted.  Not recycled.  Not even Goodwill.  We’re talking landfill, baby.  That, I have to say, was the real end of pigs.