Monday, October 23, 2023

Nested



Yesterday I wrote about erasures, art and remembering. Today I am thinking about space, possessions and remembering.

As the only boy growing up in a family with three sisters, I always had my own room. It must have been pretty empty at first but it filled up over the years. In America, growing up means acquiring stuff.

As these things go, I didn’t acquire all that much stuff. We weren’t rich and my tastes tended more toward ideas and fantasies than toys, clothes or objects.

When I left home for college, it was for good. Within a few years, I’d graduated, married, worked in the Peace Corps in Afghanistan and moved across country from Ann Arbor to San Francisco.

As was the practical thing to do, my parents packed up some of my stuff and discarded the rest. And the things they chose to save — a few books, many yellowed newspaper clippings of my early articles, some of my collections (baseball and hockey cards, seashells, a scrapbook, some random relics) have followed me around wherever I’ve gone over the many decades since.

Throughout all those middle years (ages 20-70) I lived in a succession of houses with multiple rooms and we acquired plenty more stuff.

But then, four years ago my health faltered, and my possessions had to be weeded out. While I recuperated in a series of hospitals and health-care facilities, my remaining possessions were radically distilled down to the contents of about 20 boxes.

Now the residue of that material co-exists with me in one room, just like when I was a child. The bell curve of life has brought me right back to where I started from.

As I sort through those boxes now, the contents stir memories and rediscoveries, many of which I’ve written about here. This newsletter is my living memoir; it’s going to have to serve the purpose of a book. Because I’ve decided they’ll not be a book, at least not on my watch.

But I’ll continue to write and rewrite this series of essays, some new, some old, in this space as long as I am able.

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