The other day the output hose on my washer jumped out of the drain pipe and flooded the laundry room/storage room/cat toilet. I assessed the damage without my glasses on and mopped up what I believed to be all the water. So today I'm cleaning the two cat boxes, wishing I could do this without my nose on, and I noticed that my old steamer trunk had water stains near the floor. Yes I store cherished memories right next to where my cats poop. After hauling the truck out from under boxes, I could tell it definitely had water damage.
Was this going to be like when termites ate my Kindergarten school pictures? Would I open the trunk to find my high school and college calculus tests ruined? Could I survive the loss? No, no, and I really hope so or my hoarding tendencies are worse than I thought.
Luckily during my last purge of contents I had had the foresight to line the trunk bottom with a plastic kitchen bag. The trunk was soggy, but I can still read the letter to my french pen pal I wrote for Mrs. Griswold in ninth grade (the draft, of course. I sent the letter to France, received a ball point pen and a very nice letter in return, all of which gave me an overwhelming sense of obligation to maintain this friendship, so I never wrote a thank you back and still carry a speck of guilt for my neglect).
The contents matter little in comparison to the trunk. I put things in it, because keeping it empty seems inefficient, but what I cherish is the trunk. It had been my father's when he was young. He took it to Europe on a trip he made with his grandfather. I think he was a teenager and any stories he tells about the trip always give him a smile and a twinkle in his eye. When it became mine, when I was elevenish, I kept everything I owned in it while living in a kids commune (which was scary and weird and I can and eventually will write more on that experience). The trunk was like a rigid security blanket. From then on I have toted it with me wherever I have lived, changing the contents as I grow older. When my daughter was a toddler, she scribbled on the front with a permanent marker. Unfortunately, it is not her best artwork. She has skills that aren't represented on my trunk. As she enters high school, I try to find forgiveness. When I do, I know where to store it.
I used to pull the trunk out from time to time, but now I only open it hoping to throw something away. Or, like today, to access the damage. It's made of paper, which seems an odd choice for a steamer trunk, but I think it will survive the recent flood. It's drying in my carport, so I guess fate has offered me an opportunity to consider replying to my pen pal. Merci beaucoup Feit.
Here's something Ralph Waldo Emerson said about fate:
"Tout ce qui nous limite, nous l'appelons Destin"
"Whatever limits us we call Fate."
Was this going to be like when termites ate my Kindergarten school pictures? Would I open the trunk to find my high school and college calculus tests ruined? Could I survive the loss? No, no, and I really hope so or my hoarding tendencies are worse than I thought.
Luckily during my last purge of contents I had had the foresight to line the trunk bottom with a plastic kitchen bag. The trunk was soggy, but I can still read the letter to my french pen pal I wrote for Mrs. Griswold in ninth grade (the draft, of course. I sent the letter to France, received a ball point pen and a very nice letter in return, all of which gave me an overwhelming sense of obligation to maintain this friendship, so I never wrote a thank you back and still carry a speck of guilt for my neglect).
I used to pull the trunk out from time to time, but now I only open it hoping to throw something away. Or, like today, to access the damage. It's made of paper, which seems an odd choice for a steamer trunk, but I think it will survive the recent flood. It's drying in my carport, so I guess fate has offered me an opportunity to consider replying to my pen pal. Merci beaucoup Feit.
Here's something Ralph Waldo Emerson said about fate:
"Tout ce qui nous limite, nous l'appelons Destin"
"Whatever limits us we call Fate."
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