So, as part of being in my family, you pick up a genetic trait that you save everything. You collect. You keep things from thirty years ago, like rubber bands and twist-ties, because they might come in handy.
I took it to a new level, so that not only would piles of detritus accumulate on any flat surface in my apartments, but I wouldn’t want anyone to touch them, lest they disturb the “order”. I know I caught my family (ok, my trouble-making sister) twice as I re-entered a room and put things back after they had been moved/shuffled/examined.
Well, several years ago, I moved out of my parents house. But, I would stop back by after my travels and drop off loads of stuff in the name of “visiting”. Things I had acquired as I roamed different areas of the U.S. and abroad. Things that made it into my car and never back out again until I reached the friendly confines of Cape Girardeau, Missouri and that house on Oak Hills Drive.
Eight years ago, my parents moved from Missouri to Arizona. So, my room, the room where I first slept at the end of sixth grade, needed to go to Arizona. The room with stacks of memories, junk and several thousand baseball cards needed to be packed. Well, that’s what happened. Every shelf, every drawer and every wall found its way into a box, with no examination. If it was in the room, it went into a box.
Now, many years later, I look through those boxes as flights of fancy take me back to my youth. Sometimes it is a pair of shorts to wear to a reunion. Sometimes old D&D books. Sometimes comics or baseball cards as I wonder if anything is worth a dime. All those things are cool, but the surprises are what makes the whole endeavor interesting. The order of the boxes help me to remember how the room looked – from the books on a bookshelf to what I can only guess was a sweeping motion off the top of a side table. Moments of “Oh yeah, I forget out about that,” or “I had that?” or “Even I wouldn’t have saved that.” This will be the chronicle of those moments.