I last posted on May 2, almost a month
ago. What has been so important
that I could sacrifice reflection and writing? During that time, I have been targeting one corner of
the house for sorting and cleaning.
I apply this vendetta with a satisfaction even more merciless in the
reprieve its victims have been granted over the years. The day of reckoning has, however,
arrived.
Mess will be involved. Garbage bags of it. And shredding. And decisions, for sure, as I pick
through the detritus of my childhood and my teaching career with the same dread
I untangled the plants from the weeds of the neglected gardens of my young
adulthood. No matter, it has to be
done. I prep the downstairs living
area as I imagine a chef would a professional kitchen, or medical professionals
an operating room.
Shoeboxes, the physical mnemonics of my goal, collect by the wall to
collect mementoes. Strewn next to
them, garbage bags, a lowball estimate, I suspect. By the
footstool, next to the plug-in, the shredder, ready for the marathon. Last, ranked by importance, three
remotes: Signal box and TV power, TV functions, and DVD. Their mission: to entice me to the depths below and to
save my sanity while I’m there.
I retrieve my childhood from the boxes
spread like lego blocks over the downstairs kitchen floor. It has lodged between the repository of
French teaching materials of my forties and classroom memorabilia of my
fifties. A death-row of obsolete teaching
material and stuff whose stay of execution has run out. As I sort, I find
·
the oriental-themed black
jewllery box, royal blue, pink, green and opal on ebony, a gift from my
godmother when I was ten. A
keeper—for the joy of someone knowing that I would need to feel grown-up.
·
a square headscarf from
Canada’s centennial year, folded and stored in a plastic bag. Another keeper—some value, maybe?
·
my Grade 3 class photo—timid
unsmiling me, prim and stoic at the end of the front row, neat in one of my
mother’s flawless creations. My
children might want to see that.
·
a collection of holy cards with
images of saints on the front and prayers on the back. Shred, all except one signed by Aunt Gert, whom I never met, who sang at my parents' wedding and died young. The boxes are filling
more quickly than the garbage bags at this point.
·
cards with signatures of my
maternal and paternal grandparents, signed Grandpère et Grandmère but alive in
my memory by their aliases, Memère et Pepère. How can I shred those today?
·
a certificate of appreciation
from local Chamber of Commerce in recognition of musical service to the
parish. Shredded without pause.
·
tiny plastic religious statues
offered as rewards in school—garbage.
I’m sorry. Mea culpa.
·
my high school report
cards—keep, maybe the kids might enjoy them, and then they can shred them.
·
letters—mine to my parents, and my sister’s and roommates’ to
me. Shredded without
rereading. The past is the past,
gone, and I have no desire to relive it.
·
the valedictory address I wrote
for my high school graduation, an outgrowth to my idealism and my hopes for the
future, which a local businessman liked so much, he had hundreds of copies
printed and distributed. I keep
one of those, and the white satin pocket my mother made for my notecards.
·
a poem my sister handwrote for
me on rough paper. Keep and
return. We have always been
writers.
·
Grade 2 penmanship notebook. Really? Shredded.
· The green-bound History of Willow
Bunch 1870 – 1970, English version,
that I helped translate one
adolescent summer. My first published work. Keeper.
·
my internship report, just for
fun.
·
letters notifying me of
scholarship awards. Keeper: the
satisfaction still wells up.
·
Piano and theory examination results
and certificates—I shred them all, those reminders of mediocrity.
The artifacts of my self that my mother’s
careful and respectful management has preserved for decades have been
dispatched. They await labelling
and storage in this family room turned repository of memory, those relics of a
valued past, filaments knotted into the threads of the current me.
That’s about as much time as I have for
sentiment. There’s not even a dent
in the garbage bags, and rows of boxes in the next room await their summoning.
When I made a small attempt at sorting my own memory boxes, I went on a rollercoaster of emotions.Not an easy task.
ReplyDeleteThere's a certain heartlessness required, sadly.
ReplyDelete