Fifty three years of accumulated stuff, relegated to the attic. Two college degrees, two previous marriages, ten years of teaching middle and high school, and a handful of semesters of teaching college public speaking.
And now, one mother who has passed away. This is the impetus for a thorough cleaning and a simultaneous reckoning of the “stuff” I have chosen to save.
Some of it is pretty common. Christmas decorations, roller skates, on old oak headboard and footboard. My Barbie collection, softball gloves, luggage, and art. College notebooks. High school mortarboard and tassel. As I dig deep, I find some treasures.
A Handmade “Slam Book” from Junior High, where we rated each other as friends. Brutal pre-teen popularity angst.
A Bride Doll. Still in its original box. And it’s original wedding gown.
A journal from my senior year, with shared writing between my high school sweetheart and I. Frank in its sexuality, filled with desire, and expressions of love. And bad poetry.
A picture of me in “old-timey” clothing, from Myrtle Beach, from the summer I ran away and “joined the circus,” sort of.
An electronic typewriter, before there were computers.
A leather briefcase. An overhead projector. An electric guitar signed by Hank
Williams, Jr.
My mother’s Noratake China. Each piece was carefully wrapped in newspaper. It is now displayed in my china cabinet. It has been a long journey to get to this point. My second-hand china cabinet looks like a the real deal. I worry about where to move my alter.
Stormy Monday 