Nostalgia

My sister claims I don’t have much of the sentimental gene she inherited from the family pool. I can sift through piles of childhood items and chuck the majority usually without a qualm – certainly without a tear. It is what makes me a good pile buster. If I’m helping someone purge their closets, ruthlessness rules. No hoarding allowed without a battle.

I recently spent two long days at my childhood home going through every drawer, closet and box. We even ventured into the damp and murky basement, all with the goal of purging the unneeded. I took two station wagon loads to the nearest non-profit service store and filled two garbage and recycle bins a piece.

By the time I finished, my dad joked a good wind could blow the house away. I tried to get into his man-cave-office where I know he harbors an unknown quantity of “items” he deems worth something. He had to lock me out to stop the purging madness. I let him win this round. But are eight-track tapes really going to be worth something in the next decade? I will get my hands on that stuff eventually.

Most days I am of the opinion that the world needs more purging – less clutter – fewer sad memories and harbored pain – more celebrating of the-old-has-gone and the-new-has-come.

What tripped me up this day was that little red autograph book from elementary school, signed by teachers, friends and family members wishing me well for my future. I read through it, smiled at the memories and tossed it in the garbage can. The next morning as I finished packing to fly home, the little book called to me, the nostalgia weaving its little web around me.

I could never have pictured the future in store for me back then. I wonder who the old Mona would have become without tragedy. I want to believe it has helped me become a better version of me in the end.

Untossable – these well-wishes of childhood even now spurring me forward.
My sister doesn’t know me as well as she thinks she does.