This old trunk is a particular favourite of mine. It belonged to my father, so far back in time it was from his Merchant Marine days pre- and during the second World War when he sailed the world's seas. It still has some of the old traveling stickers on it, including one where I can still see his very recognizable handwriting.
It is a solid piece, still in good condition. The inside, with its stacked drawers, is lined in fabric that is dingy and worn and I remember that once upon a time I considered restoring it, another of my many projects that exists only in my imagination. I haven't opened it since some time before 2001, I can't even remember when last I did. In our previous house in Ottawa, for 5 years it served as our television stand in the corner of the family room.
Well today I did open it and the term "blast from the past" sounds too lame and rock and roll to describe it. What really happened was a grenade exploded in my face.
I had forgotten what was in it. More to the point, what I thought was in it, was not. I thought that among other things it was filled with old dolls of mine. That's what used to be, but somewhere along the years I had thrown them out I guess. As I think of it, I kind of wish there was one I had kept. Along with the old motley crew was a very refined and stylish doll with a couture wardrobe hand-stitched by my Aunt Peggy. That would be nice to see again, but must not have survived one of my very occasional ruthless purges. However, I did find two little boxes of knitted clothes for
Angelique and Satoochi. I'm all by myself, but I'm laughing and laughing out loud. How did THAT survive the years? Along with that on the first layer were half a dozen pairs of cotton gloves - some wrist length and some elbow length. My mother's.
I removed the top drawer, and there on the second level was an old wedding dress from a former life. WTF??? Along with that were piles of really old, past generation at least, tablecloths with that distinctive ancient, musty smell that permeates the inside of the trunk. I lifted out that drawer to reach the bottom level and all hell broke loose in my mind.
There, I found stacks of shoe and stationery boxes filled with photos, letters, old received thank-you and Christmas cards, postcards, boxes of costume jewelery and fossils. These all belonged to my mother. There were journals and souvenirs from her trips to places like the Galapagos and Machu Pichu, old worn address books, term papers and a pile of expired passports. At the very bottom were envelopes filled with wedding photos from her marriage to my father in London, England. They had met on a ship on her way to South Africa. She was a young schoolteacher on her way to spend a year there on a teacher exchange program, where she had a complete blast and fell in love with Africa. He was the dashing Chief Engineer on the ship she was traveling on. Apparently the trip was far too short for both of them so after a year of letter writing she traveled to London to join him, and the next chapter unfolded. That would be me and my brother.
Surprisingly, as they hadn't lived together in years, there still were a few things of my Dad's. Inside a small leather case with his embossed initials I found an intriguing and beautiful certificate that had been awarded to him, Brother James William Burns, in 1942 from the Grand Lodge of Ancient Free and Accepted Masons of Scotland, appointing him the degree of Master Mason. On the heading is the iconic Masons eye shining over everything.
I had thought I knew where any remaining papers and things of my Mother's were. I had no idea that there was all this lying dormant in the trunk. I think I know what happened. After my mother died on June 15, 1994 I eventually had to go through her room and sort through and dispose of her belongings. She lived with us at the time in Washington, DC. I now remember being in the closet removing her clothes to send away. However when it came to going through the papers and photos and such, I was paralyzed. A neighbor reassured me, "Don't push it. Just pack everything in boxes for your move and don't bother looking at it now". So I did. In the past 17 years since she died I've carted this stuff around. Sometimes it moves from box to trunk as it did now, but I still hold on to it and still don't look through it. Still paralyzed. Recently, meaning within the last 4 years, I did finally get around to shredding her piles of 20 year-old bank statements. But other than that, I have never really looked through it, just glanced around the edges.
So, what did I do now? Little Miss Sort and Toss as I've become in recent years? Well, guess what, I shoved it all back into the trunk, closed and locked it up again. "I'll look at this when I'm settling in to the new house", I tell myself for the fourth time (having moved 4 times since Washington). Likely to happen?
But here's the thing. Despite my fleeting thoughts of sorting, tossing and organizing things into something that makes sense, maybe instead it makes
more sense to keep things the way they are, with the musty smells, and old familiar handwriting, and little jolts of recognition of long forgotten objects. Sometime, whenever the boxes and trunk are next opened, again I'll experience this huge explosion of surprise and recognition and emotion and memories. The trunk opens and the past spills out. Could be a good thing when I really think about it.
But not too often. Every 5 or 10 years would be OK with me.
