There are many things that can be on
your mind on a mid-summer evening. Baseball, boating, beaches, and lots of
things that don't begin with 'B' can all be bouncing and frolicking around in
your head. One thing that you definitely would not be thinking about in the heat
of the moment is New Year's and New Year's
resolutions.
When I cleaned out my closet recently I came across a box
thickly covered in dust. From its look and smell, I thought it was a refugee
from grandma's attic. Finding it was somewhat surprising as I thought I
retrieved, examined, and thrown out all the useless boxes in my life back in
January.
You see, back in January I made one more of the thousands
of New Year's resolutions I've made over the years. Most of them ended up in the
category of wishful thinking, as, by the Ides of March, all were broken or long
forgotten. This year, though, I was going to succeed. This year I vowed to get
the clutter out of my life, and to never let it return.
I had no choice. Where ever I turned clutter greeted me. It
sprung forth from bookcases in my office and living room. It spread out from
under the bed and crawled down the hall like a nightmare from some 1950's horror
flick. It formed branch offices in my car and shed and it was starting to
dominate my life and my sanity. It had to go!
Through the days and nights of January and into February I
went from room to room on a search and destroy mission. The bathroom contributed
old toothbrushes and once opened bottles of Aqua Velvet to the clutter casualty
list. The bedroom added unmatched sox, 5-inch wide ties, jeans that need more
than just a smidgen more room to be useful , and everything the world of
polyester every created.
I emptied the junk drawer in the kitchen, purged office
files, and newly emptied bookcases created space for the dust to settle. The
clutter casualties mounted. In victory I paused in thoughts of righteous
justification at my torrid attack against the inanimate objects that seem to
define and control my life.
These objects were the keys that unlocked the nostalgia
closets of my life. So many of them have memories associated with them, that
they had become to painful to throw out. Memories of summer concerts, winter ski
trips, autumn mountain hikes, and spring flowers are imbedded in the fibers of
the clothes I wore and the souvenir nick-knacks I bought. I never thought of
myself as a pack rat, but upon looking at the clutter around me and in the trash
heaps, I guess I really am.
Newspaper stories, magazine articles, and old books sparked
memories or momentary thoughts or ideas that caused me to store them, never to
be read or looked at again. They sit upon closet shelves like nuts gathered by
squirrels for winter feasts. I wonder if the squirrels may be left one of the
nuts behind.
The dust covered box I found seem to be just as useless.
The box contained checks; every check I had ever written!. I
found checks for all the normal things in life; rent, phone bills, credit cards,
along with checks that are the only link left to the momentous occasions, and
all the firsts of my life.
I found the check I wrote to pay for my first car, a blue
1969 Firebird,($1,495.00), rent at my first apartment, ($275 a month), and
checks for furniture, TV and stereo purchases. There were checks for trips,
tuition and books, student loans, parking tickets, flowers, seminars,
get-rich-quick-scams (I was a lot more gullible back then), and just about
everything else one pays for in one's life.
In a separate box I found 50 or so checks written to
Eastern Airlines. I used to fly from New York to Washington DC on weekends to
see my girlfriend, Schultzie. The first check is for $49.00 -- round
trip! The last, $149.00 -- one way. (I took a long weekend I guess). It is
too bad they didn't have frequent flyer miles back then because I wouldn't
ever have to pay for a plane ticket again. I was a regular and I
got to know many of the flight attendants and they all got to know know
Schultzie through my stories and their questions. They always knew what I had
planned and what she and I did and how the weekend turned out. (Something I
never told Schultzie!)
It is funny how just looking at canceled checks can send
you down memory lane. It is really strange. They form an unbroken line to my
past with their continuous numbers and dates and serve as a bizarre history book
into my identity; who I am and where I've been. Twenty plus years, eight
addresses, four states, seven banks and 6200 checks latter, an identity is still
growing, memories are still forming, and I am still checking out
life.
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