The small white envelope and the strange yellow book

I've spend a good deal of the weekend toiling busily listing magazines on eBay. My Pop left 30 boxes (yes my friends, that's thirty) in my possession and asked me to sell them on eBay. I have to say I was quite impressed by his capacity to understand eBay, considering that he's 92 and it took several laborious conversations (laborious on both our parts I might add) to explain it. I don't think he realised how much interest there would be, but I've sold 25 boxes thus far for a little under $2000. He insists on paying me for my troubles, despite my protests that I would do it for free. It's gotten to the point where I don't want to insult him by refusing his gift, but at the same time I'm constantly trying to down the offer in negotiations.

Amongst the remaining boxes I found a box full of books. These books reflect his passions: there were some on building, DIY, engineering, sex. Yep, my old Pop has sex books. And I'm not talking pornos here - they were thrown out by my aunt, much to my Dad and Uncle's displeasure... it didn't bother me, it was all straight porn... from the seventies. I can't think of anything less sexy. The book I'm talking about is called "Secret Techniques of Erotic Delight, Illustrated: A guide to success in seduction and sexual intimacy" by Dr Vyvyan Howarth. It was published in 1966.

I admit I was intrigued when I read the title on the spine, so I picked it up and read the back. It said (and remember this was the 1960s) "In these days of cynicism and change, when almost any kind of aberration and perversion seems to be 'in', when male and female homosexuality are so rife, it is refreshing to be reminded that the best and most satisfying of erotic delights are still to be discovered and enjoyed in heterosexual contacts." I opened it up and read the one page it had on homosexuality (it is, after all, a book about "heterosexual contact" as he puts it) and I found this illuminating passage:

"It [homosexuality] occurs widely, too, among persons in the artistic profession - actors, sculptors, painters, and so forth - and is by no means unknown in the medical profession. ... Artistic people, by and large, tend to regard themselves as a cult apart from ordinary humanity ... They frequently adopt flamboyant eccentricities to mark their special calling ... It is not, therefore, to be wondered at that they should shun conventional relationships in sex."

I was on the point of indignation when I paused and remembered where this book had come from. I thought for a second that this is my grandparents' book. And then I thought "ewwwwwwww", quickly covered the book, saw a corner was showing, put a piece of paper over it and ran to wash out my mental mouth with soap and a scrubbing brush. Obviously I have since looked at it in order to write the above little excerpt, but tomorrow I am considering burning it. Fuck you Vyvyan Howarth. And fuck your poncy spelling too.

There was a wallet of documents in amongst the books. It held papers, empty envelopes (?), photos of people I didn't recognise who lived in a completely different time to me, notes and plans for tools my Pop has made and letters. Letters from Grandma to Pop when he was away in New Guinea during WWII when he was in the Air Force. They were written with in Grandma's cursive handwriting and said how much she missed him and how the kids asked about him and how they'd be together again soon. It was signed 'Bubbles.' I'm not sure where 'Bubbles' came from, but I know that she always signed her letters and cards to him that way, and he always addressed her as 'Bubbles' in his love letters and cards. I have to admit that I was a little misty eyed at this point, and the romanticism of the whole thing made up for the total meltdown I had some 15 minutes earlier when I discovered the sex book.

I was shuffling through the papers, secretly hoping for another letter from Grandma when I found a small white envelope. When I say 'white' I really mean 'beige.' And when I say 'beige' I really mean 'it used to be white in a former existence.' It had Grandma's cursive writing on it, saying "Asbestos Sample." I went to place it in the pile of "things to look at in more detail" and then did a double take. I checked again and it did indeed say "Asbestos Sample." I opened it up and there was some asbestos shards in it, dust and all, waiting to wreak their havoc on my respiratory system. I remembered that I smoke and therefore its unlikely to make much of a difference to me, and chucked it in the rubbish pile. I rescued it to take the above picture, simply because it struck me how strange it seems now to have a sample of asbestos in a small white/beige/used-to-be-white envelope, but when it was written and packaged, it probably wasn't that uncommon at all.

So they're the treasures I found in my Pop's books. You always think of your Grandparents as perpetually "old" (well I did anyway, until recently), but today I realised that the Pop I know, the old old man I see each week, was once a young man. Just like me.