The Ruby Red Clippers
It was an ill wind that blew through Oz that day, as if Almira Gulch had transformed into The Wicked Witch of the West and had blown bad luck my way. And so the word was sent out . . . the ruby red clippers were gone! They were lost, nabbed, being held for ransom perhaps, but nonetheless tragedy loomed.
Now, before you think I have made a terrible typo—let me reiterate that the Ruby Red CLIPPERS were gone. Care to hear more?
Well, let me begin with a question that will lead to my explanation. Have you ever had something that you use all the time, a tool of some kind; the thing that has seen you through many, many iterations of its use—never letting you down, always helping you to make the perfect job of the task at hand? Well, those were my clippers exactly, a magnificent obsession. They had belonged to my mother, I think, or perhaps she bought them for me. But no matter for it was my mother who had taught me the power of the ruby clippers. These clippers were the kind you use for crafts, and they were coated on the handles with a red, resilient and totally indestructible plastic of some sort. Trust me I had used these very clippers to snip my way through life. I can’t remember how many projects they saw me through.
Now, if you’ve read my previous blogs you know that I was insane enough to undertake a catering career while working a full time job, helping run the PTA, and lending a hand in our neighborhood association. BUT before that, I had another small business—I assembled gift baskets. All you had to do was tell me the occasion, the items to include, and voilà, the basket would be delivered. And in keeping I aptly named the business “The Basket Case” until I discovered there was another such aptly named business. But no harm, no foul for this endeavor did not last long.
I moved on to catering weddings and making decorations for parties, always with my red clippers at the ready. Whenever anyone needed a bow, I was their woman. I was a squirrel who stockpiled adorning ribbons and embellishments by the score.
My career intruded and I had to abandon all such businesses. But one day I retired and retirement meant I could return to my life of bow-making and sticking tinsel and glitter and all manner of tidbits to the things of this world to make it prettier. For about ten years now I have made huge bows to bedeck our church for the Christmas season. And still the ruby clippers were by my side.
But a few weeks back, after decorating my mailbox with a summer theme (a plaque that read “Welcome Summer” and a plastic drink cup frilled up for summer drinks), the clippers had vanished. It had been a while back, but I knew I had brought the clippers back home, I would never leave something so valuable far away from me.
The alarm was sent out, the munchkins were cued, the people of Oz were on alert to find the ruby red clippers. Hours ticked by, days, and still no clippers. I was ready to try an incantation or two. I had clicked my heels together and uttered “There’s no place like home,” but decided to abandon all hope. I would try to put the clippers aside mentally and they would magically return to me. But still Lady Luck only grimaced at me instead of a nice smile.
And so in desolation for this small part of me that was missing, I did the unthinkable - - I decided to clean my room. I had looked there before and knew I had no luck, but perhaps once more would do the trick. I unearthed things in my craft room long buried, I rediscovered wonderful treasures I had put aside . . . and, drum roll, please . . . Eureka! I found the ruby red clippers!!! Where? In the bottom of a basket (ironic, isn’t it?) that I often carry around to try to corral things that need to be put away.
This story has a moral. If you obsess over some item, keep it close and not in the bottom of a basket. And, it has a bonus moral - - always clean your room. What could it hurt?
Editor's Note: Silly, isn't it, how some little thing can become such a part of our lives that we are desolate without it. But, I did warn you that this was a tale of obsession.