Last month I spent 10 days in Oregon. I was totally overbooked and over stimulated, and by the time I returned, I was ready for a vacation.
The main event was the Viola da Gamba Society of America conclave. I attended this 3 years ago, at the same place, Forest Grove. I had not remembered most of the teachings, but the memory of the event was green. How often does one get to immerse oneself in something, surrounded by like-minded people? Not since college have I spent my days in such kindred company, occupied with soul and mind enhancing activities just because I was interested in them. So much of my time is spent on maintenance and work for pay. I prefer work for play.
Unfortunately, I was also there to clear my soon-to-be-sold house of the boxes of STUFF that D and I left behind over a year ago. He had presumably retrieved his possessions but there were boxes and boxes of books, CDs, clothing, dishes, craft supplies, memorabilia, art, letters, business papers, photos. Not to mention several pieces of Grandma S's furniture and an immigrant truck: wooden with a simple reddish rosemaling of a horse on the inner lid and "Kari D.J. Qvitness, 1861" inscribed in swirly gold letters on the side. She died of a heart attack in her 20's, and her trunk used to hold the baby clothes of my older brother, born and died a year before me. Now it holds other memories, the photographs and letters from my early 20s with a smattering of more recent papers tossed in on top.
The conclave went Sunday-Saturday, which left me with the preceding Saturday and the following Sunday-Tuesday to see friends, go to the beach, check out the Cracked Pots show, sort through possessions, take them to Good Will or the post office, and get my hair cut. Needless to say, something had to give. That something was the boxes of papers and photographs, most of which are currently languishing in my aunt's garage. All but one box of books was left to go to thrift stores. The CD's are with S, being slowly ripped into MP3 files and then given to other friends. The art and dishes are in another friend's basement. Some furniture is with a friend, some with my aunt. Clothes were the only thing totally taken care of: they have been mailed to Albuquerque or dropped off at Goodwill.
I will have to wait for another visit to complete the job, not to mention see the friends who were unable to meet my scheduling restrictions.
I thought of just tossing the letters and photos. It seems I have saved every card, letter, note, and picture. And what I didn't save, my Mom and Dad did. When I opened the box filled with bluebooks and papers from college days, I flung back my head and moaned, "WHY?????!!!" And yet....I didn't put them into the recycling with the 10-year-old bills and flyers from journeys. (I did toss the grade cards going back to 1st grade.)
V says I need to keep them for future family historians who will want to fill in the blanks of the family story. "Who was that crazy woman who took off for the west coast and flitted hither and yon? What was she thinking when she got married at age 47? How did she live?" While I'm not sure I agree with her, I know that I need to go through them for myself. Just the few hours I spent glancing at envelopes brought memories and feelings wavering to the surface. S wrote to me for years, it seems, before he disappeared from my life. My friend M's brother sent me flowers after his visit...ah yes, I remember walking with him, how he slowly stripped off my glove so we could hold hands, skin on skin.
In previous years, I sorted the letters by sender: B's in one envelope, coming from Champaigne, IL, from Connecticut, from Springfield, IL. L's came from IL, TX, HI. The trajectory of their lives entwined with my inertia. Once I reached Portland, I never left, except to travel. And now those memories are boxed up, disorganized, like so many of my thoughts and feelings. I want to open them up before I start the next phase.
Meanwhile, I saw my friends, sang the Taverner Missa, re-resolved to rent a gamba and learn to play it well, to find a good singing group, to stay in better touch with JMR, my super-talented, super-gentle, super-troubled musician friend. And, I got the last of the dyed hair cut off. Karena Chop-Chop and I got caught up while she snipped and snipped, gradually winnowing down to the natural grey/brown/white, careful to not bald me. She said, "I'm cutting D away." When she was finished, my head felt light, with loose curls clustered all around. It's an old-lady cut, in a way, and I feel like it shows to excess my fat and aged neck. However, that is a voice that I need to learn to silence.
When we left, K waved from the door and said, "I'm going to sweep up D and throw him in the garbage." Now that's a voice worth listening to.
I really like the new look. :)
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