My family and I are moving. Not far, maybe 15 miles at most from our current location. Over the past several years, we have tried this moving business before, but have been met with obstacles that have proven too difficult to overcome, so we have stayed. I don't dislike my very functional house with a shelf or closet for anything. Actually I am mourning a bit the quiet comfort of my house; it is a warm and well lived in space. It speaks of humbleness and doesn't put on airs. Gosh, I hate a house that puts on airs. But it is time. It is time to move on to a new stage of our lives, to start a new life in a new space and build a real home around that.
So, my husband and I have been digging out from underneath the accumulation of seven years of stuff. I call it crap; Chris has an entirely different name for it that I cannot mention here, but regardless of its name, we have accumulated it. Much like an unwanted layer of thick mud, the stuff we have is difficult to pull our limbs through. There is so much of it, and I consider myself someone who gets rid of junk often enough. But the stuff, it is everywhere. I had to leave the house today to go to the mall to buy more stuff to add the preexisting stuff, all to make myself a little more relaxed. And looking on that statement now, I realize that was just plain ludicrous.
But through all the stuff, I found a few little treasures long forgotten, buried for years in dusty boxes. My husband handed me a book bag with my sorority letters on it, Sigma Sigma Sigma, and said, Can you get rid of this? I thought for certain I could, given that I hadn't thought much about sorority life in a decade. So, first I pulled out a small carved box filled with little Mexican trinkets, including a hair clasp and a necklace. A rush of memories came back to me of my friend Alissa from college, who went to Mexico every summer, and brought back to me little things like the wooden box, and she wore a sombrero and poncho every Halloween, and we used to set out under a huge oak tree on the lawn in front of our dorm and reflect on the enormity of life. I talk to Alissa some now, not as much as I would like, so it seems our friendship has been tucked away in a little carved Mexican box. But at least it is safe there.
Then, I found my old college ID holder, also bearing my sorority letters. holding my first college ID. It was a driver's license size laminated card, with my name typed, typed as in typewriter typed, on it, and a mug shot of me, with my enormous post 1980's hair almost filling the entire picture. I remember the day I had that ID made; my mom was with me at freshman orientation, and I walked down the middle of campus on the tour with all the other scared freshmen, thinking I held the world in my hand. I was like that in high school and then early college, that thought that you were surely invincible to any shortcomings or disappointments. Now, looking back, I knew that feeling was just an arrogant remnant of youth, but it sure felt nice to think nothing could stop you.
My favorite and most heartbreaking find was the stub of the ticket to my first Dave Matthews Band concert. Now, I remember this almost by every detail. It was the Sunday before finals week, 1996, and I was obsessive about studying, especially for finals, but I blew off preparing for my Monday final to go the concert. It was early December, and it was snowing when we left the sorority house. I was wearing brown corduroy bib overalls. Imagine that! Doesn't that sound horrible? But I'm sure I felt stylish in an alternative and funky way. We had seats on the floor, and we were so close to the stage I thought I might just be able to touch Dave while he danced around in his rather odd way, strumming his guitar. I remember singing like I was the only person at the concert. I remember us driving back to Huntington, exhausted, while the snow continued to fall. I remember I got an A on my final that Monday, despite sleep deprivation and no studying, which debunked my myth that you had to study at least 10 hours the night before any exam. I have seen Dave several times since that particular concert, but that one was the best by far.
And there I stood in my kitchen, surrounded by all the needless stuff we had pulled out of drawers and cabinets, closets, and the attic. It all meant nothing, but this little yellowed ticket stub made me stop the movement of my life and remember. What power there is in memories.
So, I took my tri-sigma book bag, and without throwing out any of its contents, I put in my cedar chest. Someday, I'm sure my children will find that bag, like a time capsule and try to wrap their minds around my youth and the fact that I used to do things like go to concerts, enjoy music, and put together simply awful outfits in the name of individuality. I hope they can see me, when I was young. I still see myself that way.
No comments:
Post a Comment