On a recent rain-soaked night, with the babies tucked tight in their beds and nary a thing on the TV, I put off the home gym 3000 and disappeared into the basement for some long overdue organization of stuff. By stuff, I mean anything and everything that my family has acquired over the last ten years that is currently not in use. Some of the items are outdated, (i.e. the old electronics, remotes, stereos, etc.), some of the items are unnecessary by purposes of passé home décor or overstock, and some of the items are type specific be it seasonal clothes or items from my eldest daughters past. Mixed in with all of these boxes, however, are nostalgic items from my past.
With my motivation high, I plunged into myriad boxes, containers, and baskets in order to separate the junk from the treasure, the past from the present, and the his from the hers. I began by eliminating certain items that had no value at all. Who needs cat toys with no cat, electronics ten years out of date, and old college papers anyway? Once all items of no value went into the garbage, I still had a mountain of stuff in which to contend. Since most of what was left was not for me to sort, I decided to concentrate on what was mine. This is where my evening got off track.
Isn’t interesting when one’s thoughts turn nostalgic?
Suffice it to say, we all have a box or two with random elements from our past which we have kept for unknown reasons. I am no different. I have a couple boxes that I get into from time to time, when the moment presents itself, for no specific rhyme or reason. My boxes include old UK basketball magazines and newspaper clippings regarding our late nineties greatness, a coin collection, pictures and trinkets from my travels, bad poetry, random writings and letters, and a litany of other items from past experiences. These items define where we have been and what we have accomplished, tucked away in personal time capsules of sorts, for recollection in moments just like these. What else did I have to do anyway?
There was one small box, however, that night that I decided to open once I had looked through all the usual boxes. It was a little box, one that was half opened with old hospital scrubs sticking out. Obviously, this was not one of mine. Upon closer inspection, and under the pastel green scrubs serving as the lid, was an old newspaper. I immediately knew what it was. An hour later, I put it away.
What I found that night is why I love waxing nostalgic. Hidden away in a box of hodgepodge was a newspaper dated May 31, 1994. The front was decorated with pictures of classmates, the heading read Tates Creek Masthead. What I had unearthed was the final edition of my High School Newspaper for my senior year complete with 16 pages of senior wills. I started to read.
In a way, I had forgotten all about senior wills. Who knows if they are still done in 2009? With newspapers folding at monumental rates (The Rocky Mountain News being the latest to close its presses) perhaps seniors are writing senior blogs, sending their notes via text message, or emailing their wills to all their friends by bulk mail. Either way, I lost myself in nostalgia, reading the cryptic offerings of friends, and wondering what it all meant. As I perused numerous entries of publicized inside information, a familiar feeling came over me as if I was reverting for a moment to a youthful time. I was holding a tangible relic of the past; an anthropological goldmine of youthful meanderings, sculpted friendships, and lessons learned, and through the musty fragrance of the past, I could feel the presence of certain events just like I was there.
I didn’t write a senior will, but if I did, I suppose it would feel something like this:
I, Grant Frame, of conspicuous mind and inconspicuous body do hereby bequeath the following…to my friends and family, a fortune cookie, a ball peen hammer, a left hand thumb, a pan of chocolate, Crazy Bob in Aqua Ville, 32 points, grease lightning, water wars, lemon squares and a host of other obscure inferences, references, and recollections.
For an hour, on that rain-soaked night, under the guise of sorting stuff, I felt like the kid I remember but rarely see anymore. Still, in remembering events long since forgotten, I dusted off the past, explored the present, and peeked into the future all in the simple turn of a newspapers’ slightly yellowing page. Wouldn’t it be sad if all newspapers were replaced with digital outlets? In tomorrow’s edition, they just may be. “Extra, Extra, A.J. Stewart Quits the Team…log in and read all about it.” How ‘bout it Creekers…Just a thought!
With my motivation high, I plunged into myriad boxes, containers, and baskets in order to separate the junk from the treasure, the past from the present, and the his from the hers. I began by eliminating certain items that had no value at all. Who needs cat toys with no cat, electronics ten years out of date, and old college papers anyway? Once all items of no value went into the garbage, I still had a mountain of stuff in which to contend. Since most of what was left was not for me to sort, I decided to concentrate on what was mine. This is where my evening got off track.
Isn’t interesting when one’s thoughts turn nostalgic?
Suffice it to say, we all have a box or two with random elements from our past which we have kept for unknown reasons. I am no different. I have a couple boxes that I get into from time to time, when the moment presents itself, for no specific rhyme or reason. My boxes include old UK basketball magazines and newspaper clippings regarding our late nineties greatness, a coin collection, pictures and trinkets from my travels, bad poetry, random writings and letters, and a litany of other items from past experiences. These items define where we have been and what we have accomplished, tucked away in personal time capsules of sorts, for recollection in moments just like these. What else did I have to do anyway?
There was one small box, however, that night that I decided to open once I had looked through all the usual boxes. It was a little box, one that was half opened with old hospital scrubs sticking out. Obviously, this was not one of mine. Upon closer inspection, and under the pastel green scrubs serving as the lid, was an old newspaper. I immediately knew what it was. An hour later, I put it away.
What I found that night is why I love waxing nostalgic. Hidden away in a box of hodgepodge was a newspaper dated May 31, 1994. The front was decorated with pictures of classmates, the heading read Tates Creek Masthead. What I had unearthed was the final edition of my High School Newspaper for my senior year complete with 16 pages of senior wills. I started to read.
In a way, I had forgotten all about senior wills. Who knows if they are still done in 2009? With newspapers folding at monumental rates (The Rocky Mountain News being the latest to close its presses) perhaps seniors are writing senior blogs, sending their notes via text message, or emailing their wills to all their friends by bulk mail. Either way, I lost myself in nostalgia, reading the cryptic offerings of friends, and wondering what it all meant. As I perused numerous entries of publicized inside information, a familiar feeling came over me as if I was reverting for a moment to a youthful time. I was holding a tangible relic of the past; an anthropological goldmine of youthful meanderings, sculpted friendships, and lessons learned, and through the musty fragrance of the past, I could feel the presence of certain events just like I was there.
I didn’t write a senior will, but if I did, I suppose it would feel something like this:
I, Grant Frame, of conspicuous mind and inconspicuous body do hereby bequeath the following…to my friends and family, a fortune cookie, a ball peen hammer, a left hand thumb, a pan of chocolate, Crazy Bob in Aqua Ville, 32 points, grease lightning, water wars, lemon squares and a host of other obscure inferences, references, and recollections.
For an hour, on that rain-soaked night, under the guise of sorting stuff, I felt like the kid I remember but rarely see anymore. Still, in remembering events long since forgotten, I dusted off the past, explored the present, and peeked into the future all in the simple turn of a newspapers’ slightly yellowing page. Wouldn’t it be sad if all newspapers were replaced with digital outlets? In tomorrow’s edition, they just may be. “Extra, Extra, A.J. Stewart Quits the Team…log in and read all about it.” How ‘bout it Creekers…Just a thought!
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