I had two weeks to prepare for my medical school exams. Two weeks of blissful solitude at home, with nothing to do but revise. I sat down, opened my laptop … and immediately began to glance around for a distraction.
I’ve long been a masterful procrasti-cleaner, but distraction was difficult to find because my house is generally quite spick and span. I wandered into my beautifully curated storage cupboard to grab the vacuum cleaner – surely the floors could use a once-over? Little did I know that lurking at the back was an unexpected addiction.
I noticed it as soon as I opened the door: a dusty box on one of the upper shelves housing a stamp collection I’d inherited from my grandmother 30-odd years ago. As a child I was fascinated by stamps. They seemed so exotic; intrepid, even. These tiny, functional artwork that had traversed countries and continents to shepherd the mail to its destination. I even spent a year or so adding to the collection: peeling them off letters and begging Mum and Dad to buy extras on trips to the post office. On weekends, I would swap them with some older boys from school who invariably took advantage of my generous nature (but it was all in good fun).
Dial-up internet and Super Nintendo eventually eclipsed my dalliance with philately (a posh word for the study and appreciation of postage stamps), and my collection – which numbered a few thousand stamps – was boxed and stored. I never relinquished it though, convinced, like many before me, that if I ever got around to organising and selling them those brightly coloured bits of paper would one day be worth a fortune (spoiler alert: they’re not).
As I stood in the cupboard gazing at the dusty box, the prospect of study looming back of mind, I realised that day had finally come. In fact, the job couldn’t wait a second longer. These stamps warranted immediate sorting, arrangement and display.
Study would have to wait.
I began sifting through. Some of the stamps were quite old; a few were approaching their centenary. I decided to dissect the collection into categories: countries, animals, plants and people, to be organised chronologically in display sleeves. I sat there for hours on that first day, so immersed in the activity I had to ration stamp time for the remainder of my study leave, using it as a reward for slogging through a few hours’ revision.
Over the weeks, it occurred to me that stamps, much like coins and bank notes, have long served to express national identity – internally, via the domestic post, and to the world at large as we send correspondence overseas.
There were stamps from every continent, including Antarctica. (I’m assuming Australia Post doesn’t actually have a shopfront there, rather it regularly prints stamp series to acknowledge our Antarctic territories.) Unsurprisingly, the bulk of the collection was Australian. In the early days of colonisation there was a clear theme: monarchy. By 1913 we began to explore a more localised identity with the release of the Kangaroo on Map series, designed as a more effective advertisement for Australia than the head of King George V – though this didn’t go down well with monarchists.
Over the years our stamps continued to showcase our unique flora and fauna, while highlighting national prowess in farming, industry, performing arts, business and technology. We also began to acknowledge our Indigenous heritage. A special moment came when I stumbled across the image of Gwoja Tjungurrayi, a Warlpiri-Anmatyerr man who, in 1950, became the first living Australian to feature on a stamp certified by the postmaster general. You might also recognise him from our $2 coin.
My grandmother had hoarded Christmas stamps every year from 1957 to 1993. The early days presented refined, celebratory depictions of Jesus and family, until 1977 threw a spanner into the works with a cartoon of a surfing Santa Claus. Despite seeming a wonderfully Australian take on the festive season, the idea of slapping a beach-going, possibly atheist, larrikin on the Christmas mail proved controversial.
My sorting and organising came to an end with a 1992 floral stamp series titled “Thinking of You”. It was fitting, given the memories of my grandmother echoing from each page.
Of course, I’ve flirted with the prospect of adding to the collection. But, as I have no more exams on the horizon, I wonder where I’ll find the motivation. My fleeting love affair with philately has left its mark though. With the fading utility of snail mail, postage stamps are likely to fall by the wayside eventually, along with hard currency. So I’m keeping the collection – not relegated to the back of a cupboard, but proudly on display alongside a range of other curiosities I’ve collected over the years. To be thumbed through with nostalgia, whenever the mood arises.
