Remember how I obsessively cleaned and organized my basement? I haven’t yet told you about some of the things I discovered, hidden in a small U-Haul box for years. When I opened it, I thought it might contain some of my old college artifacts. Expecting to see an over-sized Chi-O tee-shirt, I nearly fell out of my chair when a small, pink box stared up at me.
I knew that box. An old cigar box that I covered in pink construction paper with my name on it. Lina. Yes, this was my treasure box. And all of my most precious things were inside.
When I opened a box I felt as if I was unearthing a sealed tomb. My personal mausoleum of sorts. I was Dalai Jones, about to witness a supernatural phenomenon where ghosts and shit start escaping from their cigar box crypt.
But, alas, only Hello Kitty and her friends were inside. Still smelling of new flexible plastic like the day I bought them.
As I gently took each item out, a wave of old memories came rushing in. Our first house. My desk. Neighborhood friends. But mostly, the overwhelming feeling was appreciation.
Yes, you see, my parents are the quintessential “American Success Story” – both the first generation college graduates. Their fathers, my grandfathers, held typical blue collar jobs. One working on home heating and air conditioners, the other as a night janitor. My parents worked hard and slowly moved up the personal income tax bracket. That took a while, so as a child I got my clothes at Kmart and had many hand-me-down toys from aunts. I had two Barbies and most of their clothes were crocheted or hand sewn by my grandma. I didn’t know any different and didn’t care at the time, however, when I did get something new, it was precious to me. So adored that I wouldn’t even use them.
My tape roll still has plenty of the original tape left.
Thirty years later and I still have a couple stickers left. My daughter, on the other hand, puts 75 stickers on one little note to her friend.
All of my stationary is still well stocked. I may have let myself use one piece. Maybe.
There were erasers hardly used, and pencils still sharp. Items that routinely get tossed from a birthday party goodie bag in our house now. They were all so coveted.
I find myself still hoarding my favorite things. If I LOVE a shirt, I will save it for a special day. Sometimes that day never comes and I realize I hardly ever wore it.
It is so interesting to see the difference in my kids. In many ways, so unappreciative. Knowing there will be more, so they don’t take care of what they have. It drives me crazy! I think they should be like me and save the store bag and original box the item came in (yes, I even had a collection of bags from my favorite stores – a symbol of consumption I revered). Instead, doll’s hair gets cut off and balls get lost in the neighbor’s yard from a home run kick.
No matter what I do to instill a value of respect and appreciation of “things” I can never artificially recreated my childhood for them. In many ways, I wouldn’t want to. I could learn a lot from them: how about live a little and wear your new shirt, for Christ’s sake! Don’t hold onto things as if they are a part of you. Enjoy what you have and don’t worry if it breaks or gets a stain on it. Assume you will always have enough so you never have to stockpile things “just in case.”
So, somewhere between my 30-year-old roll of tape and leaving your bike out in the rain, there is normalcy. Someday, the Dalai family will find it.
Dalai Lina 