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I cringe at the thought of having to pack up only what I could carry with me and setting out on a new life, for whatever reason. Mostly these types of trips are not by choice and are brought about by some political, economic, or natural disaster of the sort best avoided. Here are people arriving on Ellis Island, date unknown, followed by a Florida migrant in 1940 and Japanese citizens in Los Angeles waiting to be relocated to interment camps during World War II.
And the term “luggage” is, itself, a relative one, depending on the circumstances. For some, luggage is a fine set of matching bags with sturdy locks and neat identity tags. For others, luggage is a box tied with string or an old belt. Here is a Turkish porter in 1880, followed by an adventuresome Boy Scout in 1930 and some baggage handlers loading a train at Chicago’s Union Station in 1943.
But we all at some time have to deal with our stuff and find a way to pack and transport it. And eventually, all lost luggage goes somewhere to die; in this case, to Scottsboro, Alabama, and the Unclaimed Baggage Center.
I don’t have a set of matching luggage, only a few well-worn bags that show my many years of too much travel. Every once in a while I see a nice set of vintage luggage at a garage sale or thrift store, but I’ve always resisted the temptation to take it home. All I need is the excess baggage of excess baggage. That would be the ultimate irony.
This article was last modified on May 17, 2023
This article was first published on December 3, 2010
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