Arnie Kanter

Not to brag, but I was probably the only kid in my second grade class who knew where Venezuela was.  That’s because, for my seventh birthday, my father gave me all of the paraphernalia I needed to begin a stamp collection– a globe, a stamp book, little hinges to affix stamps in the book, a small magnifying glass and tweezers to hold the stamps.

Dad’s export business gave him associates around the world, so letters poured into his office with stamps I could use for my collection. My dad‘s secretary, Nell, was tasked with the responsibility of setting aside those stamps for periodic delivery to me.  She was well-qualified for this because her husband was an avid stamp collector.

So I became a stamp collector. My hobby didn’t replace other interests, like the Cubs, but it was a lot less painful.  Holding the stamps in my tweezers, looking at them through my magnifying glass (for what purpose, I was never quite sure) and trying to put them neatly into the allotted space in my stamp books, gave me pleasure and satisfaction. I liked finding the country each stamp represented on my globe, and enjoyed their color and variety.

One day in my junior year in high school, I discovered that my father, without asking or telling me, had given away my entire stamp collection to Nell, for her husband’s collection.  So I have no stamp book to photograph; only this unexceptional stamp from yesterday’s junk mail.

I have not thought about this incident for 65 years. In fact, I had almost gotten over it--until now.