The Darkened Corners

I miss them already. It took all of my will power not to sneak into the back yard while PC was sleeping last night and rescue them. My memories. That have been relegated to the trash bin.

And now they are gone. No way to rescue them. Trash day is on Tuesday

PC smugly comments, “My memories are larger than a cardboard box.”

Yeah? So are mine, apparently. They take up 11 cardboard boxes. Or at least they did.

Now I’m down to 5. I keep waiting for the much-hyped cathartic sensation that supposedly comes with purging. I suspect that I won’t be feeling it anytime soon.

And then he adds, “Why do you need things in order to remember? I have my memories. They don’t require things. I just remember and then the moment passes.”

Well, that might be true. But having spent the better part of three days frolicking down Memory Lane, I realize how much I enjoy having tangible mementos.

Without my things, how else can I share the story about my Bat Mitzvah cards? Yes, I can describe it. But no words can accurately capture the humour of receiving so many copies of the same card.

Apparently in 1984, there were only so many Bat Mitzvah card choices at the Hallmark store. We had invited so many people (the entire congregation!) to my Bat Mitzvah and with such limited card selections, I was bound to receive duplicates. Someone with a working knowledge of statistics might be able to better explain this but I, for one, was surprised that the duplications were not spread evenly among the six or so choices. There were two cards in particular that had dozens and dozens of matching mates. I clearly recall opening the first duplicate and being amused. And how the amusement gradually became out-and-out laughter with each subsequent copy.

Am I able to recall the story without seeing the cards? Certainly. But there is much power in the physicality of a memory. And like the Torah, we see nuances that may not have previously appeared to us. I had seen these cards a number of times. But never before had I noticed that the majority of them employed the term ‘Bas Mitzvah’ instead of ‘Bat Mitzvah.’ Perhaps it is the passage of time, as well as the fact that ‘Bat Mitzvah’ has virtually replaced the older pronunciation, that brought it to my attention. Without the physical objects, I can no longer learn from my own past in the same way.

I know that PC thinks that I am a pack rat and perhaps I do have some difficulty seeing the distinction between necessary mementos and what he lovingly calls “crap.” It’s not as though I am a compulsive hoarder. I just don’t want to let go…