We are in the process of moving back home, closer to family. This is something I have wanted for years, and never really thought would happen, but I am excited to say it's happening now. But that is for another post.
Because we are moving, we've been sorting through old stuff, to see if there is anything to throw out instead of packing and hauling with us. Andrew found a big box in the deepest corner of the basement labeled "Marsha's special things" which I dove into a few nights ago with great delight. It was bursting with junk, most of which was from high school and university.
There were many trinkets that I'm sure held some sort of sentimental value of which I have long forgotten. There were two beautiful letters from my best friend from high school that she wrote to me for Christmas and my birthday, in our grade 12 year. I kept those. There were pictures, and cards, and calendars, one of which was made by my high school boss with pictures of all her employees in it (I actually had an amazing job in high school). There were day planners, and student cards, and notes from friends in class, and little virgin Mary statues (I'm fairly certain those were from my great aunt Sister Mary, a nun).
There were printed emails from Andrew, all together in a folder (I'm nothing if not organized). They were sappy and contained a lot of Zeppelin lyrics, for which I made sure to appropriately mock him. He made the point that I had printed and kept them, and that was the end of that.
Then there was a notebook. This notebook, I soon found, was a succinct little piece of my soul. It was my everything notebook that I had clearly used for general purposes in high school, when I had something in my brain that needed writing down. It contained pages of notes I had made successfully translating Tolkien's written language, and subsequent pages were sometimes written in that language. The were lists, and reminders, and a few poems. There were notes on driving rules, probably from studying for my G1. A few pages were dedicated to me practicing signing book covers, since I was obviously going to become a famous author and that task would take up much of my time and it seemed prudent to perfect it.
And there was a novel I had started writing (by hand, children). I don't remember this novel, even after reading my surprisingly thorough outline, and the first few pages that I actually had written. The storyline wasn't very good. It was your basic fantasy novel, set in a world like this one but with magic, though most people weren't aware it existed. There was a big evil entity kidnapping young girls. It would have been a boring story. The writing though, and I don't mean to toot my own horn, but the writing was spot on. I've always been a decent writer (see above re: aspirations to be famous writer), which I have always believed to be directly related to how very much I read. If I ever could get an idea for a book, I could probably write a damn good one. The problem, of course, would be finishing it once I started. The notebook, overall, reminded me just how much of a nerd I was (am); how much time I spent (spend) inside my own head.
Back to my box of special things. In the end, I threw away most of the contents. Although they were all special things, I don't need them to remind me of the special times I've had. If they're worth remembering, I remember them. If not, I pay taxes so someone will take them and bury them for me.
