Boxes From the Attic

I ran across a box in my attic. There are many, this one I sort of remembered packing many years ago. It was when we moved from our house on Vernon to the new house my mother fought so against on Dunwall. The box was one I had probably found out back of the "shopping center", I suspect this because it still wears a shipping label from JCPenney. I had amended the label once during it's long life to read "Nostalgia". I knew it held pictures from childhood, my cheerleader letter, some old notes from the only real boyfriend I had in high school, and a bunch of junk I'd collected over the years. I stuffed some papers and things from college in there before I sealed it up and hid it in Mama's attic for the day I had my own house. It made it's way back out the other day. I was looking for something in particular. A poem that would connect me to my lyric writing son. It had won an award in 1977! Honorable mention in the state poetry contest. I found the letter from the judges and the check for $1 that I never cashed.I didn't find the poem, but what I did find was more important I think. I found a part of me I didn't remember. At one time I wanted to be a writer. I did! Why hadn't I remembered that before? I wrote short stories and poetry all the time. I gleefully turned in papers when my friends moaned and groaned about having another writing assignment.
My freshman year of college I had a professor read one of my papers out loud to the class. He didn't say my name first (thank God) but I recognized the words immediately.It was about being homesick and going home. I remember that feeling you get when someone is talking about you and maybe you shouldn't be hearing it. I felt my cheeks go hot and slumped down a little in my chair. I was horrified and elated at the same time. I also remember when he said "Excellent paper" and walked over and placed it on my desk one of the girls from my dorm glared at me....she was one of my first experiences with "mean girls" at college, not much different from the ones in high school, only older and maybe meaner. She made sure my life was not perfect from that moment on. Maybe that is one of the reasons I forgot about wanting to write...maybe I related my really good experience to a really bad one....nah, I just got busy with other things. I was dating an artist. He made me feel, not so creative. I guess when you stand in the shadow of a really creative person it's easy to be intimidated. My creative bend was different but I just let my fears squash anything meaningful way back in my own personal attic.
And now I have that little part of me back. Holding that check, the letter, it all came back...that's what I had forgotten about myself, that I was supposed to write down funny things and dark things and crazy things. Talk about a major distraction!! Thirty years can be a be a real kick in the head...and a wealth of interesting material. As I finish this I can hear my lyrical son playing a "Doors" song on the guitar...very fitting.