Every little bit

I tease my sister all the time about being a pack rat. Our Grammie kept literally everything, so Kel's tendancy to hold onto things may not be entirely her fault, or so she has always said. This weekend as I started the pre-move chore of sorting junk-to-keep and junk-to-toss, I came to an unsettling realization: after years of giving my sister crap, I, too, am somewhat of a pack rat. Not that I've reached the pack rat levels of my sister or grandmother...I'm more of a pack mouse, if you will.

I have an old jewelry box my great grandfather made that is home to a plethora of items I deem worthy, but many would call junk: a plain white handkerchief of Grandad’s; a yellowing business card with Daddy's name and title embossed in navy blue; the tiny silver and turquoise ring Grammie gave me 25 years ago; the ticket stub from my first Chiefs game; a newspaper review of my first James Taylor concert; a short note of silliness from Dawn; my first driver’s license... Seemingly bits of nothing, but in reality they’re bits of me, bits of people, places and events that became a part of me. I was amazed by how each item brought it’s own vivid memory: Grandad giving me his handkerchief to wrap up a handful of shiny, polished rocks I thought were pretty; after Daddy died, sneaking a card out of his wallet because it had his handwriting on the back; playing dress up with Grammie's vast amounts of beautiful turquoise jewelry, handmade just for her; the crisp air on a gorgeous September day as I watched my first game at Arrowhead; hot, clear, impossibly starry summer night, good friends, and 'Fire and Rain;' sharing boyfriend woes over pitchers of cold beer and games of pool at Bryce’s; girlishly agonizing for days over what to wear for my license picture. I wonder though, without these reminders would the memories be as forthcoming? As strong? As detailed or complete? Maybe, maybe not, hard to say, which is why every little bit of nothing will remain tucked away in that old wooden box.

But how do you know when it's time to purge once treasured keepsakes? Occasionally I came across something and couldn’t remember why I had once thought it was important: a piece of blue ribbon, a metal Levi Strauss button, a strange doodle of what looks like a three headed goat, a matchbook from Thirsty’s with a phone number and "Beautiful girl, you stun me. Jay" written inside, a piece of blue pool cue chalk. Obviously these things were significant to me once, but I’ll be damned if I can remember any reasons now and I felt no guilt as I tossed them in the trash pile. But what about those links to old friends or long ago love? Like the box at the bottom of my armoire filled with Bobby F. memories? I haven’t opened it in years, but after we broke up, I lived inside that box: re-reading every card and letter, re-living special dates through matchbooks from our favorite places, re-animating moments frozen in a snapshot... It’s true: time does heal all wounds and the box was tucked away for good. Coming across it this weekend, I had to wonder, is it time to let it go all together? Perhaps. Would letting go of the tangible things dim the memories?

As I wondered what to do, I suddenly remembered the day I gave up my perfect blue bike and how hard it was to let it go. It didn’t matter that I was 19 and it was a child’s bike that hadn't been ridden in years; what did matter was how important that bike was to me, then and now. Kelly was 12 when she got her first ten-speed bike, and true to form, her old purple bike was handed down to me. New, it had a bright purple seat with sparkles in the vinyl, purple streamers on the handlebars and clean, white wall tires...it was gorgeous and I coveted it. Of course, when it finally became mine the seat was torn, the streamers were long gone and there was not a trace of white on the tires. Still, it was a bike and it was mine. I rode the hell out of it for several years. It didn't even matter when the seat started falling off at random.

Around my 10th birthday, Daddy promised he’d buy a new seat and fix it for good. One evening he came home and told me he needed help getting the seat out of the truck. I remember grumbling to myself that it was only a bike seat, what kind of help did he really need. As soon as I opened the front door, I saw him and mom standing in the driveway with a brand new bike! The body was pale blue and the white seat had a vivid orange swoosh on it. I loved it! I loved that it was blue, that it was new, that it was all mine, and most of all, I loved that they had made it a surprise. It was perfect and I just knew that summer would be the best ever. I had no way of knowing how very wrong I would be - that was the summer Daddy died. After he was gone, I was too young to understand or describe it, but my perfect blue bike felt like my last link to him.
A million things happened over the next few years and eventually, I outgrew my perfect blue bike and it was delegated to a space over the basement stairs. Fast forward nine years to the day Teddy was cleaning out the garage. He saw me watching him wheel it out the door and he jokingly asked if I wanted to take it for one more spin. I tried to laugh but a sob came out instead as I tried to explain. Mom came over and said "Honey, wait, not that; that’s Terri’s bike." I’m not sure he understood until she said, "Her father bought it for her." He simply nodded, set the kick stand and squeezed my hand as he passed on his way into the house. Alone, I sat next to my perfect blue bike for a while and let myself remember. Remember the endless summer rides all over the neighborhood with Tina; remember the day it was stolen and I was inconsolable until it mysteriously appeared the next day; the one and only time I ever rode it no-handed; the challenge of riding the aptly named Dolly Parton hills. But mostly I remembered the day Daddy brought it home: his rich laugh, his mischievous wink to mom, the absolute delight he got out of surprising one of his girls. Sitting there with tears in my eyes, I let go of my perfect blue bike.

I learned several things about life that day, things to keep in mind over the next few weeks as I pack up my life: first, no matter how closely you associate an object with a memory, the memory can stand alone; second, it's natural for the things we view as significant at one point of our life to become less so as we change; third, purging the past is a necessary part of new beginnings; and finally, letting go doesn't mean forgetting.