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July 15, 2008
For days and nights, I’ve been sorting through everything…to keep or not to keep? I’ve learned that the longer you keep certain items, the easier it is to toss them. I had a whole file of what I used to consider well-designed brochures and booklets—saved for inspiration. But now they seem so outdated and passe….TOSS. Oh, and the endless envelopes of photos that did not make the cut for the photo albums…what to do with them? I am so thankful for digital cameras, so I don’t have to develop every photo in order to see what’s good and then struggle to pitch the bad shots. Old memories long forgotten bubble to the top. Perhaps the only time I’ve looked at some of these stored items is when we’ve been in transition. I just keep lugging this stuff around, can’t quite part with it, not sure what to do with it. Paintings and illustrations from art school…mmm…I’ll never hang them on my wall, never give them as gifts… I know, I’ll let someone else throw them away! So in they go to the donation box, signed and dated like messages in bottles sent out to sea.
Down in my basement is an old dusty metal box which contains my mother’s divorce papers. My grandma brought it all the way to Chicago from Lower Burrell, PA a few years ago. I’ve never opened it until a few days ago. I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning reading my mother’s account of what happened to me when I was five. I remember the events because I was there, but my mom wasn’t. After loosing custody, my dad took me away from her and she did not know where we were for six months. In this box are very articulate, type-written letters to lawyers, local police captains, judges, and old friends, all in search of me. I can’t imagine going through all of that, not knowing if Miika was safe and spending every waking moment looking for her. From my perspective, I’ve always known most of the details of this trip to California, because it was my experience. But my mom had to put all the pieces of the puzzle together during and after my disappearance. Opening that metal box was like replaying old movie reels that flicker across the screen, full of scratches and dust in dull colors: mossy green, pink, brown and gray. If it were a movie, there would be a beaded curtain opening to a little flower child running barefoot down a gravel road. She was probably never really alone, but the adults nearby were only partially aware of her, lost in their self-induced haze, a rainbow of long hair, flowing skirts, bra-less halter tops, peace and love, dancing with their eyes wide shut. Head shops, health food stores, homeless groupies wandering aimlessly, panhandling to buy the next meal. My dad likes to boast about our attendance at a private party where Jerry Garcia performed.
When we watch the evening news in the aftermath of a tornado, the victims always morn the loss of family photos, priceless moments that can’t be replaced. We all have the need to preserve these time capsules so don’t we bury the past with the present. We need to look back at the journey to see how far we’ve come. I think everyone wants to be known and remembered. Good or bad, we want to tell our children our stories. So, we keep the boxes and boxes of memories. I remember sitting on my grandparents’ “davenport” listening to my grandmother tell me stories while we looked at black and white photos of her family…my family. I was bored silly, but sat there taking it in. One day several years ago, it dawned on me that her memories were in color, not cepia. Now that my grandmother’s memory is fading, I wish that I could replay all those family history lessons.
So, no matter what happens to this house or when, at least it will be clean for a while and we will have purged the non-essentials, an arduous and relentless task. But most importantly, as I go through all this stuff, I’m reminded of the Strong Hand who kept me safe when human eyes were not watching me—a Hand with a plan for our future.