A Backward Glance

A few days ago I decided it was time to go through the boxes I had stashed in the closet under my stairs. The wonderful thing about having a Harry Potter closet is that you can mostly ignore it, opening it only to toss in those things you're not quite ready to get rid of but don't want to look at every day. It's basically a receptacle for the nostalgic trash of your life.

In one of those many boxes I found, much to my surprise, bank records dating back to 1992. Now I truly love decludicating, minimalist that I am, so I was stunned to find such a healthy record of the first 10 years of my life in New Mexico. Back then, in the pre-debit card era, I paid for anything more than the cost of a candy bar by check. The end result of this constant lack of cash was envelopes stuffed full of my history. It was a walk down memory lane that evoked many memories and more than a few feelings.

For instance, my rental history was chronicled by checks to my respective landlords. My first apartment ($450/month), which I shared with my then-husband, had a pool and a handy location near the mountain. We could take a hike or a dip, or both, and barely have to leave the house. By the time I moved out of it, though--solo--it was tinged with sad memories and disappointment. Leaving was not hard, and I looked forward to starting anew in my own place. My next apartment was not only a major coup in rent ($285/month), but also represented the "that which does not kill me makes me stronger" phase of my life. Located in one of the grooviest parts of town, it came complete with the coolest 82-year-old landlady a person could ask for. Add into this the presence of a good friend just two doors down and I was 90210ing myself into a new era. I spent many satisfied years in that tiny studio apartment reinventing myself. On Saturdays I used to hang with my landlady, Thelma, watching golf on TV. Then we'd shuffle her and her walker into my Honda and cruise down to Duran's Pharmacy for a big plate of red chile enchiladas. Those were good times. Never mind the two robberies I experienced there or the crazy next-door neighbor who liked to answer her door nekkid. That just added texture.

Another phase represented in my check history was the New Age years. Oh, yes, my friends, I went to all kinds of channelings, readings, and incense-lathered groups in my search for meaning and direction. One of my checks was made out to "Rasha." That was it. Just "Rasha." (I wonder what he's doing now; probably making big bucks as the CEO of some powerful company that cuts down rain forests and makes profits off the backs of little children. Or maybe he's a checker at Vitamin Cottage.) It's easy to judge the genre, but I look back on that time with real fondness. I met many compassionate people there who were sincerely trying to live kind and responsible lives. Okay, and a few whack jobs, but look at our government right now. Are there not a few whack jobs there? So let's all just hug and get along. After all, if Nancy Reagan can consult an astrologist without shame, I can listen to a couple of people channel dead folks. Where do you think my obsession with the dead started, anyway?

The next evolution showed up in 1997 with the first of many checks made out to the University of New Mexico. Ah, yes, my return to higher education. Yak. It sounds kinda heady and smart, but in reality those were long, tiring years spent working full time and taking classes in the evening. I was in a brain fog for most of it. When I found the check that I wrote for the privilege of taking the Graduate Record Exam (GRE), my gut clenched in a visceral memory of that anxiety-ridden time spent jumping through hoops just to prove my worth to some anonymous administrator. My palms are getting sweaty just thinking about it now, so let's be happy that the end result was a new career and gainful employment and just move on.

There was the first check to my professional organization, representing the end of academics and the beginning of Real Life. There was that strange check for $24.52 to Blockbuster Videos (one wonders why I owed them that much money--was it my turn to host Neighborhood Porn Night or did I just owe a remarkable amount in late fees?). And then, of course, there was the evolution of my last name on the signature line, from married to maiden-hyphen-married to just maiden.

The gift out of this, outside of a walk down memory lane, was the perspective of looking at those parts of my life from many years passed. The things I thought I surely could not survive, I survived. The things that brought laughter and goodness to my life remain intact in my memory. Many of the people I met along the way are still a part of my life, whether peripherally or in daily life--or in spirit.

So as I sat in my garage taking a good, long look at all those checks, I smiled. And then I shredded those bastards. And remembered that God really is one crafty mutha.