Part of my Thanksgiving jaunt included the "forced" purging of many boxes of belongings from my parents’ attic. My folks are slowly winnowing down the mass accumulation of five people who spent almost 30 years in a post-Victorian American four-square. Our “stuff” is crammed into every nook and cranny of that house. Now that my parents are retired empty-nesters, they are thinking ahead to when they down-size and relocate to warmer climes nearer their grandchildren. While a good deal of my furniture and quite a few trunks remain in the basement and the garage, I am making pace with the five-year cleaning plan that is underway. Somehow my brothers are spared this process. I think it is because they are thousands of miles away, and don’t seem to care as much about their “stuff.”
On previous visits I have spent hours shredding paystubs from college, shaking my head over the paltry wages that were my work-study financial aid. Copious binders of college notes, handouts, and papers also went in the shredder. College textbooks were donated to the library. Childhood toys were passed on to needy kids. My maid of horror … er… honor bridesmaids dresses went off to Goodwill to amuse future bargain hunters. (Sorry gals, I never did manage to wear those taffeta creations again, no matter how hard you tried to be nice.) I thought I had made good progress, so I was befuddled as to what the heck was in eight to ten boxes Mom had earmarked for me to go through this time.
Under the light of one dim bulb and in the shivering cold of an un-insulated attic, I quickly managed to edit down more of my past. This time I discarded the remainder of my college papers and notes. I found a file with paystubs from my first “real” job, where I learned that if "you have time to lean, you have time to clean." I winnowed three crates of piano/choral music down to one. More books were earmarked for donation, along with various ceramic figurines and stuffed animals. I was ruthless. Peter Walsh would have been so proud of me.
I didn’t really slow down, however, until I found two small battered cardboard boxes. These were the real “memory boxes,” ones that had been hidden away in the dark recesses of the attic. Creased into the masking tape and peppered throughout the papers were cinders from two chimney fires that have threatened the house over the years. I had discovered a treasure trove from my high school years. In addition to my SAT paperwork, Soviet-era rubles and Communist-paraphernalia from my trip to the U.S.S.R., I found my high school diploma and various letter pins--like the one for the National Honor Society. (How did I forget that I belonged to the National Honor Society?) I also found those Broadway Playbills from the trip to Les Miz and Phantom, along with the choral arrangements, mentioned here. Seriously. Look!
On previous visits I have spent hours shredding paystubs from college, shaking my head over the paltry wages that were my work-study financial aid. Copious binders of college notes, handouts, and papers also went in the shredder. College textbooks were donated to the library. Childhood toys were passed on to needy kids. My maid of horror … er… honor bridesmaids dresses went off to Goodwill to amuse future bargain hunters. (Sorry gals, I never did manage to wear those taffeta creations again, no matter how hard you tried to be nice.) I thought I had made good progress, so I was befuddled as to what the heck was in eight to ten boxes Mom had earmarked for me to go through this time.
Under the light of one dim bulb and in the shivering cold of an un-insulated attic, I quickly managed to edit down more of my past. This time I discarded the remainder of my college papers and notes. I found a file with paystubs from my first “real” job, where I learned that if "you have time to lean, you have time to clean." I winnowed three crates of piano/choral music down to one. More books were earmarked for donation, along with various ceramic figurines and stuffed animals. I was ruthless. Peter Walsh would have been so proud of me.
I didn’t really slow down, however, until I found two small battered cardboard boxes. These were the real “memory boxes,” ones that had been hidden away in the dark recesses of the attic. Creased into the masking tape and peppered throughout the papers were cinders from two chimney fires that have threatened the house over the years. I had discovered a treasure trove from my high school years. In addition to my SAT paperwork, Soviet-era rubles and Communist-paraphernalia from my trip to the U.S.S.R., I found my high school diploma and various letter pins--like the one for the National Honor Society. (How did I forget that I belonged to the National Honor Society?) I also found those Broadway Playbills from the trip to Les Miz and Phantom, along with the choral arrangements, mentioned here. Seriously. Look!
(I wonder how much I can get for them on eBay?)
Some of the scariest finds in that archaeological dig were the junior high school yearbooks and all of the photos of the 1980s hair. Those incriminating documents will be locked away and only shown to those implicated on those pages with me, and you know who you are. What really amused me were those inscriptions that my classmates wrote in those yearbooks. You know those inscriptions; the “Have a great Summer!” or “You’re a great friend” notes? The ones to me went more like:- “Stay the same over the summer (strange!)”;
- “{Auntie Nettie} You are a very strange! But nice friend.”;
- “Hi {Auntie Nettie} You’re a little weird. Only kidding.” [I don't think she was!];
- and “I will miss your stupid ‘smart’ remarks.”
I brought those boxes and a few more home with me to New York. I’ll be going through them bit by bit, and suspect that they’ll be a source for many a blog entry in the upcoming months.
Stay tuned for more trips down memory lane.
1 comment:
He he. I love the yearbook comments. Boy they figured you out early on!
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