Friday, November 27, 2009

"Here, these are yours."

Several years ago, my mother gave me three boxes from her basement. "Here, these are yours," was the verbal decree. I took them home and put them in the attic. I was really not interested in their contents. Two weeks ago, I was in my perpetual attic-cleaning mode when I found them. I untied the discolored cord and opened the first carton. Inside were several hard-backed composition books, the kind I still look for every fall when school begins.


I opened the first book to discover it contained mimeographed pictures I had colored...in the first grade. Now you must understand I had unwittingly stumbled upon an ancient repository. You also need to put this in context. I was born mid-twentieth century, and have quite a few years behind me. Therefore, much like the discovery of the Dead Sea Scrolls, this was old stuff. Trust me. I stared at the pages; every single page had a neatly pasted drawing of a cabbage, rabbit, dog, or flower. I must admit it appeared I did not subscribe to the notion of coloring within the lines. Well, I was only six.


The remaining composition books were dedicated to first grade math and some semblance of language arts. I also found a fourth-grade geography notebook containing maps of Europe and South America, all with carefully identified countries, lakes, and rivers. I remember geography class, I loved it. I had to memorize the continents, draw and label the countries. I loved drawing South America, penciling in the Amazon River and its tributaries. However, I am digressing.


The weight of my mother's commitment and actions overwhelmed me. Here was a woman who had carefully collected every math workbook, Junior Scholastic issue, and report card I ever earned, read, or ciphered. She neatly packed them away, tied the box with a cord, and wrote my name on it. We moved from the house of my elementary years to another house, where she placed the boxes on shelves in the basement. Then, bequeathed to me they were moved to my house in central PA where I put them in the attic. What a journey those little cardboard boxes have had! Think of the resources, space,energy, and fuel needed to move them sixty miles from their place of origin. I had a mental picture of the closing scene of "Raiders of the Lost Ark," as the Ark of the Covenant was stored in an immense warehouse. Well, not quite that large, or that important.


I looked through the boxes, saving a few pictures and an issue of Junior Scholastic highlighting the National Park Service. The rest I threw away. It is too late for me to follow my mother's example. I have already thrown away too many pictures, report cards, and Mother's Day cards made by my children. I have saved things that matter to me; little notes my daughter wrote me to encourage me during tough times, silly photos of my son. I have my memories. I do not need to collect and save the minutiae of my life or of my children. I especially do not need to burden them thirty years from now when I say, "Here, these are yours."