The Value of Rare

It's one of those "truths" that is with us everyday, yet we may live a hundred years and never ever see it. I was over sixty when I saw it (really saw it) for the first time.  I was making a clock in my workshop in Bradenton, Florida, and I needed just one small black screw to finish it, but there were none left in the screw drawer.  I searched my workbench but to no avail. I looked in the medium, large and extra-large black screw drawers thinking I may have inadvertently put some in the wrong place. No luck. The clock was due to leave my workshop that next morning for the hour-long trip to St. Petersburg (it had been promised to a customer at the gallery where I sold my art), but because I was missing the one component to make it complete, I could fail the gallery and disappoint the buyer.

There was only one hardware store in town that sold that particular screw and they were closed. So I snuck into Tom's shop and rummaged through his screw drawers. No small black screws. I went back to my shop, got down on my knees and crawled over every inch of the floor, but I didn't find the one thing I needed to finish my whimsical timepiece. I was losing hope when I thought of the Ball jar I had inherited from my dad. Surely, I would find what I was looking for in Dad's decades-long accumulation of miscellany.  I tipped the contents of the jar onto my workbench, and out spilled rusty nails and bolts and nuts and screws of every size and shape, but the only thing at that moment that was of value to me was missing.

Tenacity refused to let me give up. So down on my knees again I went, and there it was.  If it had been a snake, well, you know what would have happened.  I finished my clock, delivered it the next day, stopped at the hardware store on the way home, and bought two thousand small black screws. Within days, the value of the screws diminished.  I'd carelessly grab a handful and lay them on the workbench; some would stay put while others rolled off onto the floor.  Oh, well.  I had two thousand. Over time, I noticed the pile of screws grow smaller, but I wasn't concerned; I still had a thousand. As I grew more indifferent with my regard for the only screws that would complete my clocks, I noticed my supply was  dwindling, but it was still okay. I had a hundred left.  Then one day I was making a clock in my shop and I needed one small black screw to finish it, but the screw drawer was empty.  I searched my workbench, but couldn't find the one component needed to finish my whimsical timepiece. Tom's shop? the floor? Dad's Ball jar? Nope! Nope! and Nope!

It's just the way it is. The more rare something is, the more valuable it becomes. Over the past weekend, when my family came to visit, I talked to my granddaughter about the value of rare.  She is a precious, one of a kind, valuable nine-year-old who, as she grows into a young woman, should never allow herself to be taken for granted, treated disrespectfully, carelessly and with indifference. I didn't use the "screw" story; instead I demonstrated my point with an old dirty bottle cap that I later threw into the trash can, which may have confused her. So, I'm not certain she understood what I was telling her, but that's okay.  The older I become, the more I tend to repeat myself, repeat myself, repeat myself. She may get sick of hearing me say it, but if she "gets it" my ramblings will have been worth it.