I’m tired, folks.
Really and truly at the bottom of energy.
All day long, with an eats break once in awhile, sitting between the shredder and a lopsided pile of dead tree products, I have been going through boxes and bags of our family history.
For Christmas 1999, we received 109 greeting cards, many with photos and newsletters tucked inside.
And all of them were stashed away, in a nice bundle, inside a plastic bag, taped shut with 1999 marked on it.
There were over 20 such bags in that cabinet I emptied.
There are some who would say I should save the fronts and send them off to some do-gooder outfit that makes new cards from old cards.
I’m on a personal mission here, which is to CLEAR SPACE Do Not Waste Thoughts so most of those cards were dropped into a box and hauled away to the town’s re-cycle bin on Walnut Street.
That word up there Do-Gooder reminds me of something that happened a couple weeks ago. Chris and I were talking in the kitchen, and he asked me if that is a real word, or did I just make it up, since I am the only person he has ever heard to say it.
So I went around and asked some folks at Sunday School if they knew the meaning of the word.
Of the seven persons I asked, in age from their late 20s to early 60s, and who had grown up in 4 states and one province of Canada, all knew the general idea of a do-gooder.
My mental health and smart mother status remain intact.
Anyway, loaded into the car at sunset this evening, were two bins of shredded papers, a trash can of paper, a large box of greeting cards, and our usual container for cans and bottles. When Husband wanted to put in another box of old paperback books, I had to say there was no more room, we’d have to go another trip later.
As Uzz said in the comments of the last post, it kills me to throw stuff away. And yet, how long should I keep the bulletin for a wedding, when the marriage lasted a few months short of five years?
I had three sons of my own, and dozens of youngsters under my care for years. There are only so many rainbows and butterflies, or space aliens drawn with crayons I can keep track of.
Some items are no-brainers. Both our dads are long gone, but while we had them, they wrote chatty letters and sent pictures and post cards for the grandsons. Just seeing their handwriting causes a tightness in my throat.
Their memories will get re-sorted and lovingly organized later.
Another trend I noticed was Thank You notes. Usually for something I had crocheted as a gift. Good Glory, I sure do keep busy with hook and thread. However, I began having the troubles with carpel tunnel aches in the Fall of 1997, and so could not crochet. My Thank You notes dwindled off for a year, until after surgeries on my wrists in the Summer of 1998. The first item I crocheted was a cross for a wedding the last Saturday in September, and sure enough, a note came back awhile later.
The notes for Husband are along the line of “thanks for your help with my computer” or “you did a terrific job with the program”.
He told me to shred them all, what’s done is over now.
Our computer correspondence must have picked up around 1995. There are fewer contents in the bundles since then, considering many folks are sending e-mails. I must admit, I do print out some of the nicest writings, but I hit Delete more often than I would if the message had come with a stamp on it.
Which is another place the Thank You note comes in—many are done with actual handwriting on a pretty card, so it seems a travesty to destroy a thing of beauty.
There are cars parked in front of the house, with their owners walking up the street to the city park for the fireworks.
I’d better get out to the end of our front walk and have a look, too.
~~love and Huggs, Diane