Armed with my $30 label maker from Staples, I sat on the floor of my office surrounded by a pile of papers and bent-edged folders. I typed out labels for conferences long past and for class evaluations long forgotten. Tidy, new folders were tucked away in the filing cabinet. Ian appropriated the label maker for a while and stuck a “mommy” on my forehead. Duplicates and drafts were tossed into two huge trash bags.
For years, I have jumped from one project to another and have been always too tired or pressed for time to arrange and condense things. I had a tower of files on the floor near my desk and eight cardboard boxes in the attic. I’ve got a small window of time to straighten myself out.
Not only are there the work papers, but there’s the family historian tasks — photos, videos, report cards, artwork. Since I’ve gotten the digital camera, I’ve been taking more pictures. I think my old camera took better pictures, but I really do like the editing feature of digital cameras. But more pictures means more organizing. They need to be edited and sent to shutterfly for printing. I’ve heard that you can buy backup space online to keep the pictures super safe, because as Jen pointed out, CDs only last for a few years.
I’ve got boxes of stuff that the kids have done over the years and ticket stubs to Raffi concerts. I’m trying to arrange and label things in clear plastic boxes that can be unpacked and examined years from now. I don’t know if I’m packing those things up for the kids, when they are grown, or for me, when I’m old and lonely. It’s probably for me. I’m trying to pick things that will transport me back to today — a well worn blue t-shirt with a Sante Fe train, a 7 year old Pooh Bear, a birthday candle. My talismans.
I’m cutting this short, because I’m chomping at the bit to respond to Brooks’ column for today. Later this week, I’ll have to tell you the story about a contractor in Long Island who finds a chest filled with love letters written by a poet to his mistress.
Apt. 11d 