While moving toward retirement, I’ve been throwing away a lot of my old stuff.
I don’t consider myself a pack rat. Still, this has not been an easy task for me. Most of my things can be dumped without any regrets. However, I get these emotional tugs from some of the strangest items.
Here are just a few examples of my keepers:
My mother’s Webster’s New Practical Dictionary from 1951. On the inside cover, in her flowing cursive, are words she had trouble spelling: Cincinnati, occurred, fulfill, sympathetic, succeeded, shindig and on and on. Seven decades later, I have trouble with the same words.
My third-place bowling trophy from eighth grade, which I once used to fix a toilet. The engraved plaque is seriously rusted.
A note from Mary Walsh, the first girl I kissed when I was 13. It has a cute picture of a kitten on the outside. Inside, written in pencil, is the message: “Sorry, I don’t like you anymore.”
My dad’s Acqua wristwatch, which he gave me the week before he died in 1999. It stopped working years ago. The jeweler told me it can’t be fixed, but I swear I can still hear it tick late at night.
A June 1976 handwritten note from “Gwen” Brooks (a great poet) telling me she was sending my “vital and memorable work” to Ann Harris, her editor at Harper and Row.
An August 1976 typed reply from Harper and Row’s Ann Harris, informing me my poetry wasn’t up to their standards.
I have a recommendation for my elderly friends who might wish to empty their drawers and closets.
Your life has little to do with what you throw away. It’s all about what you choose to keep.