Some days bring the oddest things

Some days bring the oddest things. We’re busy minding our own business, doing what we’re doing, keeping on keeping on, and then things go all unexpected. Sometimes, that’s a good thing.

Last Friday, October 14, I was looking for something I knew would be in one of several plastic storage crates where I keep my purely personal stuff, mostly things I brought from the USA. I’d looked inside them recently when I was moving them, so I was aware, more or less, of what was inside. That was important because it meant I knew the thing I was looking for was likely to be in one of those crates—I just didn’t know which one.

I was looking for a paper I wrote for a class when I was in high school, about some family history: I’d “interviewed” my dad about his experience as a chaplain to German prisoners of war in Virginia during World War 2. I wasn’t certain I still had it, but I was pretty sure I did.

I knew that when I was in my teens and twenties I kept pretty much everything I wrote, but I also knew that the crates weren’t filled logically or consistently. While I knew that I’d brought the stuff to New Zealand at different times, I also knew that U’d repacked the crates several times, too, something that was obvious when I looked through them recently.

The paper was in the last part of the last crate I checked. Of course.

I wrote the paper in 1973 (probably), and the fact that it was nearly 50 years ago was—well, I chose to ignore that. Or, I tried to.

Along the way to finding my treasure, I ran across all sorts of things that gave me the warm and fuzzies: A workbook from my first grade class, and the parents’ book explaining the phonetic system used to teach us. I found some children’s books the Sunday Chicago Tribune published in the 1960s that I’d carefully cut out and assembled, and on one of the books I’d carefully written my name, using the backwards letters very young kids typically make.

I also ran across all sorts of things from my activist days, including newspaper clippings of the stuff I was involved in, photos, and more. I forgot about some of it, but a lot of it—especially the clippings—I thought were lost. Also in the “I thought were lost” category was political ephemera I’d collected in the 1970s and 80s, but I thought had been destroyed while in storage in the USA after I left for NZ. I’m happy I still have a little of all that stuff I thought was lost.

I found some samples of my work at my jobs over the past 40 years, though I have plenty more elsewhere. The vast majority of the crated stuff was pre-1995.

There were lots of odds and ends, too: The doorknob to my bedroom in the first house I ever lived in, something my sister salvaged for me before the house was torn down because I couldn’t go to do it myself. There were stray old photos, there were small souvenirs from the trips to the UK that my parents took me on (1971 and 1973).

Among the most random relics were my playlists for 80s mixtapes I made for myself so I could listen to my favourite songs in those pre-MP3/streaming days. I had them because I used to write down the song lists, then, when I was happy with the tape, I’d write the list on the cassette case’s J-card (a name I only remembered as I was doing my final edit of this post…). The tapes themselves are lost, sadly, but I’ve found a few of these playlists over the years and I’ve made Spotify playlists out of two so far.

In some cases, I own (or, rather, re-own…) the tracks, and that means that I could make Apple Music playlists, too. When I have a media server set up (longer-term project), I may do that, and I’ll no longer need a streaming service. At any rate, this playlist project will probably/almost certainly become the topic of a blog post eventually.

When I speak of things I’m sentimental about, it’s stuff like what’s in those crates. The thing is, I have so very little left of my American life that what I have is precious to me: It matters that I still have some bits and pieces connecting me to every era of my life, my childhood and youth in particular. As the saying goes, it’s impossible to know where we’re going if we we don’t know where we’ve been, and those things—even mixtape playlists—provide touchstones of my life.

Yes, I still have lots (and lots and lots and…) of stuff I both want and need to get rid of, but those plastic crates are off limits. To quote myself, those crates are “out of bounds”: They will remain with me for the rest of my life. It’s always important to know where our non-negotiable boundaries are.

Last week’s adventure also reminded me of one thing more: I have so many stories from my life yet to tell. I’d better get busy.