Early in my writing journey, I hoped that old cards and letters would need to be left to a college or other institution to enlighten future generations. I kept letters (a few about love) and cards in boxes of memories to cherish and later share.
Or maybe I had a hard time parting with old stuff because at the time it wasn’t old. So many of the people who sent me letters and cards were still fresh in my mind and memories.
Just as likely, I didn’t want to face the level of sorting I am doing now.
A few days ago I came across a box labeled “Unsorted Papers” that had come from my grandparent’s house after my grandfather’s passing. It contained a very odd mix.
There was a fairly large stack of medical receipts and post-hospital instructions dating back to 1999. Grandpa died in 2004, so at the time it wasn’t ancient history, but close enough.
In that same box were dozens of envelopes from a now defunct children’s services department. Each contained my monthly Medi-cal stickers. When my grandparents obtained custody of me as a toddler, they qualified for support from the state. From what I can gather, my doctor visits were often covered by Aid to Families with Dependent Children (AFDC). My grandparents also received a small amount of money each month towards the expenses of raising their grandchild. This eventually came back to bite my father in the ass when he moved back to California and the state decided they should be reimbursed.
But wait there’s more: There was a slew of letter’s from one of Grandpa’s brothers; some contained pictures of “cute” women the man had known. I only skimmed the letters and glanced at the pics, but it was kind of weird to know that both men have been dead for quite awhile. It made me a little teary.
For some reason, the plastic insert from my great-grandmother’s wallet is what pushed me over the emotional edge. Nanny and I didn’t get along well, and I don’t have nice things to say about her in general, but I do appreciate that she was probably the first woman in my family to be college educated when she earned her Registered Nurse degree in the wake of her young husband’s untimely death. The most recent RN indentification card was in a plastic sleeve of the insert. Other items were her insurance card(s) and pictures of her children and grandchildren. There were high schools pics of my uncle, a lovely shot of my young mother leaning against a car, my baby brother and a few of me. The tears flowed so hard at that point that I had to stop for the day.
Today I recycled dozens of paper maps. I hope it is obvious that I kept them because I thought I might need them. Remember that GPS has only been available to the masses for a couple of decades. This particular box has been in storage since 2005.
I also stumbled across a cool autograph. I went to a few Bruce Springsteen concerts in the 1980s; one in particular (at Shoreline Amphitheater), Huey Lewis had a seat in my row. There was a parade of concert-goers who stood in line, right in front of us, all during the first half of the concert, to get Mr. Lewis’ autograph. Only one person was polite enough to ask if it was okay if she temporarily blocked our view of the stage. I asked to her get an autograph for me, and handed her my ticket. I own a Bruce Springsteen concert ticket with Huey Lewis’ autograph on it.
I also found many treasures such as a list of my daughter’s vocabulary when she was 18 months old, a love letter from a young friend to my son when they were probably five years old, and a plethora of wonderful pictures and negatives I thought were long gone.
As for the correspondence from the picture above, I still haven’t sorted through it. Maybe I will later today. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe I’ll put it back in a closet and deal with it at the next house.
Visceral Musings 