Nablopomo for July: Somebody SAVE Me...

(nablopomo day 1. I must be insane.)

Gosh, I'm doing this again.  Thirty days in June weren't enough for me, so I'm going for July.  Am attempting to post daily, this time for thirty-one days, but to be honest, I'm skeptical.  I don't know if I will be able to succeed in doing this.  I probably am saying this because right now, I am extremely tired.  It's after nine p.m. and we haven't eaten supper yet...but we are having beer-butt chicken, so I am...psyched!  (-more on this at a later date.  Maybe.).

The Nablopomo theme for July is "Saved." I can relate to this theme, because I save everything.  I am the original bag lady, without the bags.  Except for saving old newspapers--and I think I do have a couple or three of those--I am a pack rat.  My D. H. wants to simplify, pare things down to just what we need (not what we think we need, what we actually need), and I view my life as a museum.

An example? Here's one: our eldest is almost at the big 4-Oh, and I still have her yalkut* from first grade, you know the one--the kind of kids' briefcase with metal clips for closure, and back straps, worn like a backpack before backpacks were even invented.  These days, backpacks are made to fit backs ergonomically with wide, comfortable straps and waist belts for balance, and sometimes even padding.  This is a hard leather briefcase with thin leather straps cutting into your back, which bounces against you when you walk.  And when it's loaded with textbooks, notebooks and a pencil case, it's like carrying an elephant on your back uphill, on rocks.

So there is no chance she'll give it to her kids.  They won't wear it.  Not only is it absolutely NOT cool, but it's also darned uncomfortable.  Last time she visited (actually, I think it was the time before last) I told her I had it in our utility room, and was she interested in taking it home with her.
No response.  I should have gotten the message, but I didn't.  Actually, I just couldn't part with it.  It brought back so many memories; my first child going to school, with an old-fashioned briefcase on her back, so independent, on her own, with a bright, shiny face full of anticipation.  How can I get rid of that?!

As a result of my nostalgia, we have in our utility room which is our laundry-room-cum-storage room (without which we couldn't have moved here from our house), cardboard boxes upon boxes of. . .stuff.  Some of them are actually mysterious, as I don't have a clue what is in them.  There is a good chance we will eventually have to downsize some more, and truth be told, I don't know how I am going to do it.

As it is, when we had to leave our house in a rush almost seven years ago, items I had intended to go through and keep were thrown out, given away or scooped up by the remainder company we hired, because we had to clear out A.S.A.P. for the new owners, or the sale would not have gone through.  This gave us no time whatsoever to peruse through all our possessions in that garage and sort what we wanted to keep and what we would discard.

Items, such as the onesie (how do you spell that word?) sleepers, the one with the green polka dots which was reminiscent of a clown's outfit, and the other, lavender one, with the Peter Pan collar with the embroidery edging which our babies wore home from the hospital after birth.  We had saved them, and several of our kids wore them.  And all the rest of the baby clothes we had saved, for our future grandchildren, maybe--all gone.

I also had in our garage a beautiful wooden table with one broken leg which I had been saving for one or another or our kids when they had an apartment of their own--that, too--gone.

So, I think what happened from that point on, was that subconsciously I vowed to save everything, no matter what it was, no matter if we needed it or not.  Because I would never, ever let anyone throw anything of mine away again.

So, now I hoard it all: old roller blades which don't fit my kids anymore, their old street hockey equipment, sticks, pucks, shin guards, gloves; cassette tape boxes, board games no one has played in years, scrapbooks, yearbooks, Star Wars paraphernalia, etc.  It's a wonder I don't still have my kids' old toys, the thousands of Lego pieces from their childhood, their dolls and cars and trucks.  All that must have been discarded by the remainder company: I have no recollection of what happened to them.

My older son said recently that he wants to keep his Star Wars collection, with its giant Millennium Falcon, accessories and cast of plastic characters.  In a matter of months they--my son, daughter-in-law and new baby--will be moving into their new home, and he'll have a place to keep them (we'll have to ship them, or bring them with us when we come).  At that point, he can continue his mother's tried-and-true-tradition of saving old memories in the form of JUNK in his and his wife's spare bedroom in the new apartment.

There's only one fly in the ointment: my daughter-in-law is like my D.H.; smart, rational, efficient, and ruthless.  I give the Millenium Falcon six months.

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