Memories?

To the left as you enter my home, is a very large trunk with approximately 100 journals that I have filled, either completely or partially, since my sister gave me a diary for my eighth-grade graduation in May of 1977.  The idea in placing the trunk there is that if the house catches on fire, someone is to somehow wrest this huge trunk outside and save my journals. 

     This many journals present a problem.  At one point, I threatened to haunt my children if they did not keep and revere my journals once I died.  At another point, I realized that this was not fair to them and told them that I didn’t really care what they did with them.  My daughter, Leslie, to her credit, seemed quite offended to think that she wouldn’t want them.

     With my son, Thomas’s help, we emptied the trunk and sorted the journals into decades. (The 90’s are really sparse, but that is when Leslie and Thomas were young.)  I went through each stack and ordered them by date, putting them back in the trunk with the newest at the bottom and the 70s at the top.  (I only found two from the 2020’s which means that these journals are inhabiting various spots in stacks of books and stationery in my bedroom.)

     I’ve known for some time that I need to scan and digitize the journals. Now that I am retired, the time has come. 

     As I have begun to read the journals, I have experienced many emotions. 

     First, I am surprised at what a typical boy-crazy teenager I was.  I don’t really like that me, and I can’t believe how I described everything from my sister’s wedding to seeing the movie The Rescuers as “neat” or “very neat.”  And I haven’t found the entry yet where I learned that tomorrow is not spelled tomarrow.

     Second, I realize that my memories, the bedrock of who I am now, are totally wrong.  I know that I really didn’t like my junior year of high school but was sure that senior year was great.  Not according to my journals.  And instead of “neat,” everything is “boring.”  Was I really that smug?  Apparently.  (And am I still smug now and totally unaware?  Please note that is a rhetorical question that I would prefer you don’t answer.)

     Third, the timeline of my college years is not the one I remember.  The years are off and all turned around.  I have misremembered so many things about happenings, people, and myself.

     I realize that life is a journey and that I am supposed to be better today than I was yesterday.  But seriously, who was that girl in my journals?  I haven’t even made it to womanhood, and I’m almost afraid to keep reading.  I feel like I am having an existential crisis.  (No, I haven’t lost my faith, but it is hard to see me when I was doubting my faith and my behavior and my choices.)

     This is not turning out to be a pleasant journey down memory’s lane, but more like meeting myself as a flying, screaming monkey on the yellow-brick road to Oz with many more frightening things to come. 

     I have a 2-yard trash bin outside that the trunk will fit in.  It’s tempting.

I'll keep you posted.