Nostalgia Saturday

The following post is by Guest Blogger Donna Sue, my dear friend of many years:

I don't know how this day turned into Nostaglia Saturday, maybe something in the stars, but I went from perusing old photos to becoming tearful over old letters. It started simply enough with a rainy day project of tackling just one more box in the garage, an ongoing project to free myself from the odd accumulation of memories that live in cryptically labeled boxes stacked in there among the shadows. 

Once or twice a week, I venture bravely into the cold, damp, web-laced garage to haul out a box or two for sorting. I have noble intentions of gleaning the treasures from the crap, and for the most part I do pretty well.  I suppose by Monte’s meticulous standards I fall way short of making a meaningful dent, but with Mom as my other extreme I deserve a ribbon of some sort. (And I have just the box to place it in!)

The boxes du jour ended up being old cards, letters, clipped articles, kids’ artwork...you get the idea.  I've been pretty good about not saving every piece of potentially meaningful memorabilia, but with so many of us and limited time, things get dumped into one box out of desperation. Today's "sort and toss" started well but began to stall as I encountered handwriting I recognized and snippets of letters long forgotten.  It amazes me to recognize at a glance the writing of a person I haven't seen or heard from in sometimes thirty years. 

And how do you throw out a scribbled note from a father fifteen years gone, much less a rare three-page letter?  Or the many cards, letters and even cramped postcards from old friends, with their funny, kind, insightful thoughts?  Or the fledgling writing of children now grown up and gone? By whatever turns of fortune, I have become the keeper of this family's special as well as mundane history.  Don't I have a duty to hold on to relevant documents?

The job took a turn as the inevitable tears blurred my ability to read further and I decided to load everything, unsorted, into a new, clean, well labeled box.  On the outside, I wrote only one word: Treasures. My hope is that someday I can sit with friend, family member, maybe any person with an open ear, and revisit the memories, sifting through the fading words to take in once again all the love they represent.

So, while not entirely successful by some standards, I am happily resigned to the fact that I do not have to throw it all away.  Those musty boxes in the garage contain dear memories and they mean something to me.  I will keep them, share them, and someday, someone else will throw them away.

 If they can.