As Charlie and I made our way from the second hole to the third at Buena Vista, the golf course where we play, I looked right and noticed a tire sitting in a small clearing in the woods, far away from any road.
“How did that tire end up there?” I wondered, which is something I wonder a lot. More than I’d like to admit.
As a person who is interested in stories, attracted to stories, and slightly obsessed with stories, it’s not uncommon for me to become deeply curious and slightly tormented by the desire to know the stories of objects as well as people.
What is the story of this tire? Where did it come from? Who owned it? How and why did it end up in a clearing in a forested portion of a local golf course?
These thought plague me. I saw this tire more than two weeks ago, but I still find myself thinking about it from time to time.
I also wonder – more than I’d like to admit – about the fate of objects no longer in my possession:
My mother’s plastic cookie jar. A letter written to me by Kamie Norris. My black Huffy Racer. A stuffed animal named Roscoe who disappeared at Scout camp. The glass butterfly I gave to my mother for Christmas as a boy.
Many more.
Objects of importance in my life. Objects lost and never found. The unknown fate of these objects – their stories – roll around in my mind all the time. Plague me.
Like the tire. How and why it landed in that clearing in the forest will never be known. It’s story will be forever untold.
It makes me a little crazy.
