Lost and found in the forgettory

Like most basements, ours is filled with lots of stuff in storage: suitcases, tax receipts, beach gear, camping gear, extra comforters, winter clothing, paint cans, tools, the empty boxes that other things came in.

And then there are the tubs filled with pieces of my past lives: old letters, souvenirs, scrapbooks, things that were too big for the scrapbooks.

They have survived for longer than I care to admit, stored at my dad's house, shipped to my first house, toted to this house.

(Estella calls this trove of saved and forgotten boxes "the forgettory.")

I did a small round of sorting in June, clearing out 3 or 4 shoe boxes of printed photographs that were the leftovers of rolls already put into photo albums, or extra double prints of same.

A couple of weeks ago I began sifting through the letters. Lots and lots of letters. I saved every one I ever received. (Yes, I know.) I think I must have been a fairly prolific correspondent, too, because many of them begin with some variation of thanking me for writing so much, and apologizing for not reciprocating. I guess when you're a writer, you look for opportunities to write.

Nostalgic though I am for the days of non-electronic communication, even I had to admit that I didn't need every letter. (Though there is one set I am saving in its entirety: the letters from my British friend Alex because he is so witting and entertaining that it was like getting a letter from Monty Python.)

On a bit of a roll, I returned to the forgettory this weekend and got more serious. It was hard to know where to start. Out went every copy of the college newspaper from all 3 years I was on campus. Just because I worked and wrote for it doesn't mean I need to keep all of it--especially not when I also have bound books of my clips. (Yes, I know.)

Out went the high school Spanish class notes. And papers written for English classes, both high school and college. The many copies of '80s pop music magazines "Smash Hits" and "Star Hits." My complete Duran Duran scrapbook. (Yes, I know.)

I can't quite bring myself to toss all of it, not yet. The 15 scrapbooks from childhood through high school, college, and young adulthood have survived the purge, awaiting the time when I have time to sift through and downsize them further. And the stack of journals, starting at age 11, are sacred. The fuzzier my memory gets, the more I need written evidence of what I used to do and how I used to feel and who I used to be.

And some of it seems just as cool and interesting as it did the day I decided to store it away. (Exhibit A: the concert ticket from the original Lollapalooza tour.) I still harbor the notion that some day Julia will find it fascinating to discover what it was like to grow up in another time and another place, and that her mom was once a silly--and cool--kid, too.