Treasures, Trinkets, Trash

     Among the many items I came across in my garage, one day, among the many boxes from moving and traveling (boxes that still bore the addresses of past life--my home address growing up, the apartments I lived in as a traveling nurse  (if only for 3 months), were among many and many other things my own personal trove of treasures, trinkets, and trash. 

    You  would think it would be so easy to file away these objects of permanence, objects of desire (at one point) into these three simple categories.  (By the way, I am a really really good organizer.) But then I start to see them as bookmarks in my life...sticky notes- if you will-as a reminder of who I was then and what mattered to me then.

     In one plastic storage box, I find handwritten letters and cards from anybody I have ever known in my life.  These include letters from my grandmother who passed away in June, 2007.  I am sure I can find the 1st birthday card I received from her when we moved to the states.  I was only 3.  And I am sure I can find the last letter I ever received from her before she became ill.  She was 91 when she died; it was only in her late 80's when her penmanship started to show her age.    Treasures?  Yes.  

      A small square red Lord and Taylor box hold notes this boy Jimmy Hackett from 7th grade gave to me.  We would exchange notes at least once a day during school.  They started out juvenile and ackward: "hey what's up? K E sucks! (referring to his ex girlfriend)  K.I.T. and DDLDSDB (Deliver the letter the sooner the better)  to more deep, meaningful letters fringing on a potentially budding romance that never happened.  Why?  And what ever happened to him?  And why did I keep his notes?  Papered trinkets, I guess, unless I can write a story out of them...

     In another big moving box, I find a pair of size 7 brown platform Skechers sandals.  Those sandals bought in Hawaii for the sole purpose of me wearing lug-soled-cumbersome-shoes-so-I-can walk-taller will definitely go to Craiglist or  be donated.  But the size 6.5 Timberland Goretex boots I bought, battling the snowdrifts in Chicago?  I'll keep them. The leather at the heels are at first stiff, but upon sliding my feet into them, they give way.  You gotta love good leather boots.  The boots are a timeless classic and I can see me wearing them here when it gets 20 degrees cold....not.  But I'll keep them anyway!

   In the same box though, I unearth a jewelry box I received from my mom   (a birthday present or hand me down I cannot remember). In it contains among other costume jewelry and trinkets, a Human Relations Award pin from high school.  My yearbook teacher nominated me and I can still remember how greatly surprised I had felt and humbled and honored when I received that letter of nomination.  In that same jewelry box I find my college class ring from nursing school.  It still fits on my right fourth finger.  But I never wore it.  Why did I even want it?  But I guess it is of some value (gold), so that goes to the Treasure list.       

      I find my yearbooks in yet  another box. Now I can compare the friends I made back then to how they look like now on Facebook.  Some look the same. And the glimpses of their life on their FB page reflect a little of what I remember about them in high school.   I realize that for the most part I'm glad I reconnected with most of them on Facebook.  

     In a small jewelry box I find a platinum necklace with a diamond (albeit very small) solitaire hanging from it. A gift from an ex boyfriend. Trash? It brings back bad memories.  Dennis offers to sell it at a pawn shop.  I'm on the brink of saying yes.

    Another surprise: all the journals I have ever written--first on notebook (narrow width college bound notebooks of course), then on larger thicker journal books bought from specialty book stores..  I cannot believe I bottled all my thoughts in the form of pen and paper beginning when I was in 6th grade.  Wow. These days,  it's a wonder if I ever write in my journal.  Digital form now, of course. A memoir for me...and my family one day.  Treasure, I guess.

     There are, of course boxes and suitcases of clothes.  Clothes that don't fit me anymore (even as early as 2 years ago)  Man, fashion really changes so quick!  I manage to find my favorite blue sweatshirt from Hawaii that has prints of honu on it) as well as long sleeve shirts that are rendered classic staples.  Despite  the fact that they have been stored in there for a couple of years, the shirts manage to keep their shape.  The lacy and provocative underthings--way too small for me now and oh my horror, what was I thinking--definitely have to go.  How do you recycle these clothes or should I just trash them?

     And then, there are books.  Books and books and books that are shouting and complaining to be displayed in the house!  We need a bookcase (or two) I remind Dennis again.  And photo album after photo album and boxes and bags of photos I never got around to categorizing and organizing into albums.  Old cameras--even a polaroid camera--videotapes, bags of unused 35mm film (still in their little round grey and black cases)--Hey! Maybe my old neighbor would appreciate them as she still uses a point and shoot.  Yet another box holds souvenirs from our travels around the world--maps, walking sticks, textiles, filtering water bottles and little vials of iodine--even an xray film of my chest when I ended up with HAPE on our Around Annapurna trek.  

     And last but not least, but perhaps the weirdest and morbid find of all, the ashes of my dog Pogi Boy.  He is contained in a medium sized tin can, which has been bubble wrapped twice.  He sure traveled a lot with me--first as my buddy on my travel nursing days, then later on as ashes.  It's not that I forgot about him (I was travelling!)...  I just couldn't find a right resting place for him.  But now that we are here, now that we have put down our roots , now that we actually have a place we can call home, maybe now I can give his ashes a proper burial (alongside Leo).  

     Somehow I can't categorize him.  The memory of him is a treasure I'll always have in my heart, but honestly, his remains are just ashes....

     I need to clean out the garage.