A Remembrance of Things Past

As many of you know, within the past few years both my parents have passed away, and my brother and I have been trying to deal with the estate, including a somewhat run-down 1950s 2-bedroom, 2-bath rancher with just short of 50 years worth of junk. Since I've had a lot of time on my hands--being unemployed helps a lot with that--I volunteered to do the lion's share of the cleanout and to oversee any renovations and repairs needed.

Last week, in cleaning out some things, I happened upon a big box with folders and papers. I almost threw it out without looking at it, but my bro and I are trying to be very careful and judicious in the cleanup, lest we throw out some priceless 50-plus-year-old vase that looks like a pot-metal flower-holder thing. This comes by hard experience: mom lost her engagement ring and a pretty bluish-stone ring to a thief at the nursing home. We were foolhardy enough to believe that mom's valuables were safe in her room. My brother and I knew that, just by the age of the rings, they were valuable; we didn't know how valuable until we found an insurance policy on them over a year after mom died. Some nursing home employee is now driving a new car thanks to our "contribution." It's a sad thing to happen, but once-bitten, twice shy.

So I started digging through the box to try to discern and evaluate its contents. It turned out it was a huge collection of notebooks, homework, and miscellany from me and my brother's days in school, some going back as far as the second grade! Since I'm currently in a phase of self-exploration, I couldn't help but take the time to examine each item individually. There was my old French notebook (cahier) from my senior year! Yikes! I thought I had done better in that subject than what the quiz, homework, and test scores told. There was a collection of band concert programs and correspondence from the booster club.

Then there were several folders from my English classes. I had always struggled with grades in English. As a matter of fact, I had had to double up on English classes my last spring semester in order to graduate on time, as I'd flunked Prose the previous winter. I somehow managed to tough it out and get two passing grades, though I distinctly remember waking up with panic attacks during that horribly stressful period.

Rather ironic, really, flunking Prose. Especially considering how accomplished a writer I was. Though my grades didn't show it, I enjoyed writing somewhat. Despite my deficiencies, I was able to tell a good tale. It was obvious in looking at some of my earliest work in the box. The "One day..." stories were very original. I was a bit disorganized in my thinking and tended to "write ahead" of my thoughts--not to mention sloppy penmanship--but I had a knack for seeing things in a fresh was. I recall almost fainting one day when my sophmore English teacher, Mrs. Middleton, who was definitely of the "old school," hickory-switch-and-ruler educational era ("A dog can be 'mad'; but humans get 'angry.'"), came up to me unbidden and exclaimed, "Have you ever thought of being a writer?" What? Me?! Are you talkin' to me?! Eric White? Sit over on the side wall? Score low C's on your tests? She was talking to me. I'd apparently written some kind of wonderfully clever entry in my journal--remember those?--a few days before. (Alas, the journal had apparently not been saved in the box.)

But I liked writing. As a matter of fact, during that period in my life, I began keeping a private journal (i.e., one not meant for anyone to see but me... and before you say "diary," let me say, women keep diaries; men keep journals). It wasn't a consistent thing. It started out as a way to remember my thoughts and experiences on various school and church trips, but it came to be a great way for me to clear my head about something that was bothering me, so I started doing more personal entries. I was a shy kid back then, and writing allowed to voice my own feelings and opinions couched in a nonthreatening way. The weird thing was that I began letting people read my journal. It started with me letting people read my "documentation" of whatever school or church trip we happened to be on, but since my personal entries were in the same book, there was nothing to stop them from reading those. People seemed to enjoy reading what I'd written, and it made me feel good that I had made, say, a six-hour bus ride more bearable for someone. There was even a point where I would have to hunt down my journal on the bus in order to continue my thoughts.

Suddenly, I had a voice; I had something to say that mattered. Granted, the people reading it were my friends, people I was close to. But later on in college, it got to where I really didn't care who read it. Someone would ask to see it and I would oblige--most of the time. If you didn't like my opinions and impressions, too bad. They were mine and mine alone. Journaling was a terrific way for me to develop my usually somewhat lacking self-esteem.

I have continued--somewhat irregularly--my journaling to this day. Hmmm... you might say that I was the original blogger! A man before his time. You might say that. You might be wrong, too.

So, getting back to my magical box of goodies. It's quite enlightening to see who you were way back when. There are two tracks of thought in doing this: 1. I wish I were more the person that I was back then now, and 2. I'm glad I'm not the same person I was back then. The final answer to that is, for me, a little of both, I guess. One the one hand, I wouldn't go back to those days in high school and college to save my neck; on the other, that period was a magical part of my life. Bad, a lot. Good, a lot, too.

Suffice it to say, if you had told me back then where I am now, I probably would've laughed my head off. Singing opera? C'mon. Get real, dude. If anyone can't say that you're a different person than you were as a teenager, I'll need to give you the number of my therapist.

A rather odd footnote to the writing:

In 1985, my mother went out with a bunch of her friends to celebrate someone's birthday. As part of the celebration, they all went up to Morristown to see a local "world famous" psychic, Bobby Drinnon. Apparently, the birthday girl visited him regularly and thought "Wouldn't it be fun if..." Now, my mom doesn't believe in all that psychic stuff... at least she didn't think she did at the time. But she went along with the group, as it was just something different and fun to do, like those old machines that you'd put a nickel in and it would give your weight and tell your future. And who doesn't open their fortune cookie after eating Chinese?

So, she saw the psychic... and came away dumbfounded! When she walked in the door, he asked her if her husband was in the military or a policeman or fireman, as he was seeing a uniform. My mom couldn't figure it out... until she realized that he was seeing dad in his scout uniform! Dad was a lifelong scouter: scoutmaster, advisor, leader. Okay, so maybe that could've been a coincidence. But the other stuff he told her about herself and her family was equally uncanny!

"Bless her heart, mom was so amazed with what he said, when she came home she jotted down everything that she could remember him saying for future reference. That piece of paper was in the box I found. Regarding me, he had said (sic):

"Regarding your other son, the musical one, people at the church absolutely love him. He is very talented. I see him making a living as a writer. "

Writer? Me? C'mon, dude. Ah, but life is not over yet. I wonder if Bobby Drinnon has any openings in the near future.

- EW