We're down to having an old door and a dining chair left in storage. Yes, as of Thursday, it is stilled screwed to the wall. For the second time Robbie had to ask that the screw be removed so that we can clear out the storage room. If the screw isn't removed by tomorrow, I'll be taking matters into my own hands and cutting a small slit in the fabric advertisement covering the screw head.
The past week has been an archeological dig. Going through box after box of paper work. Layer upon layer of the detritus of thirty years piled in desk drawers and banker's boxes. The worst part (other than the threat of breathing in toxic mold) is that I don't know the person who squirreled away so much crap! I found a get well card signed by four people that for the life of me I can't recall. There are old pictures of people that I no longer keep in touch with and some are of people that I have no idea who the are. Maybe I should scan and post them to see if anyone reading this recognizes who they are.
There are notebooks from the beginnings of my college years/decades, along with grades from those classes. Transcripts, promissory notes, book receipts, syllabi from a several classes (would anyone care what my assignments were for psychology 101?) and just crap that I've held onto. Why? What in the world was I thinking in keeping all that stuff? Do I really need to know what doors to keep open in the ceramics lab while firing bisque? Especially since the art department moved to a new building almost ten years ago.
Some of the crap is just painful to go through. I've found letters from cousins from when I first started college. There are letters from my mother - always starting off with "you received this letter(s) a couple of weeks ago, but I keep putting off going to the post office". Several of them included notes from my youngest brother - the most poignant was the one that read "Mark had a 'hard-attack' last week and died." I couldn't figure out who Mark was and I panicked that I had forgotten some great detail of my life until I got to mother's letter and she told me that my brother's pet Finch Mork had died and she was glad to be rid of the mess that the bird made. I have unfinished letters never sent (Lord, I hope I never sent them) to old girlfriends - scathing, nasty ones in some cases. I reached the point that I started running everything through the shredder without reading the contents.
I've shredded old bank statements and the accompanying canceled checks - remember when banks did that? - from when I first went to work for Bank One back in '94. I really don't think I need to keep the checks I wrote to Target any longer even thought they should be happy that I've been such a consistent and loyal customer all this time. I even came across a receipt for a loan payment from 1980. Really? I kept that? All the paper I've shredded the past week has filled a large garbage can, and I'm not finished. It's good that trash pickup is only a couple of days away.
Am I shredding my past? Will I regret this years from now? I think the answer to both is no. I've not missed any of the crap for at least seven years which is a pretty good indicator that I can continue to live with out most of it. Pictures I'll keep. Some books I'll keep. Tax returns go without saying. Other things that still have a use may be kept, but more than likely they'll get donated. I'm tired of dragging this stuff around both physically and emotionally. I think I've said this before, but I'll say it again: nostalgia isn't for me. I think it's too easy to get caught up in the past and miss out on what is happening now. And honestly, they're just boxes full of the dried up old bones of the person I once was. Time to bury them for good.
2 comments:
Sock, so I'm reading these posts backwards, which is kinda strange and cool at the same time. I loved this one so much because you talk about something that I think about a lot. I wonder if I keep things like statements and bills and old cards because I'm afraid of what I'd be throwing away. I can't bring myself to sell or give away the ring and necklace my Rob gave me, and I can't really say why. Maybe because I feel like I'd be saying the time with him meant nothing? I don't know. But I love how said "they're just boxes full of the dried up old bones of the person I once was." Beautiful and true.
I so get this, dear Sock. Depending on mood, going through old photos makes me feel that mine's been a life well-lived (so far), or, alternately, that life is loss and loss alone. It's like shopping for food: best to go after you've eaten.
You've inspired me to get started on the "forgettery" (thank you, Julia Child) — my spare room, which I use as storage and a door I can close against the clutter. I don't keep storage spaces for the reasons you are now setting out and also because I want to say everything I own, I love and use. A curious fiction that bears little resemblance to the reality of my crap-congested life.
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