It’s autumn, a season that feels like a new beginning to me. For some, it’s a new school, teachers and new friends to meet. For others, it’s the end of summer and the start of another fall and into winter, ending the hot days and beginning the cold evenings.
Earlier in the spring of this year, my parents filled my car with boxes of my old school notes. In total, 11 cardboard boxes. The boxes had been stored perfectly for years in their basement; it’s a testimony to their cellar that the paper was dry and crisp – not a spot of mould on them. They contained every note, project, essay and story that I wrote from grade 6 to grade 13.
I do not have a basement (yet, again – see my previous blog) so the boxes resided in my hallway. They sat for months there because frankly, I was too scared to open them. But the other week with summer gone and in the midst of a new season, I decided to deal with my past and not have it clutter the hallway, like piles of dirty dishes on the counter. Plus it’s difficult to negotiate to the laundry room with my boxes.
I spent an enjoyable day, laughing with an occasional tear, sorting through my school history between calculus notes, chemistry experiments and occasionally reading a short story. I had completely forgotten that I had written political satire through my high school years. I’m so proud of my old self.
I limited myself to keeping only 1 small box of memories. This might seem overly harsh. But images of my grandmother’s house – stuffed from the basement, through 2 stories to an attic like a Christmas turkey – kept me grounded. Everything unworthy of the one box would be burned. Luckily the choices were mostly easy; gone is all math, history and science notes. Not that they are unimportant but because the stuff that is needed is either stored in my mind or on the internet. What is more important for me to keep were all the stories, the journals and the hilarious dark poetry that only a teenager can write.
Naturally, over 11 boxes, I got a little lazy and mentally exhausted. But that was okay because I knew that on “burn night” I would have a chance to second guess any decision and rescue those precious pieces of paper that slipped through the first round of saving.
Kim built an amazing fire early in the afternoon so it would be hot as any fire in Dante’s inferno. I started the destruction, throwing in my biology notes first, followed by geometry (which I love, so a little hard); quickly sacrificed was the dreaded French grammar.
Kim picked up my geography notes and plunked out an essay labeled “Fishing”. She told me that she wanted to read this first before it was burned. Waving at her, I headed to the house for the wine. When I returned, I asked her about “Fishing”. She said it was hilarious; a story that obviously required me to use words about the east coast and fishing. The story took place in Newfoundland. Then she asked, what happened to the 2 main characters, Jim and Dad, because I had left the story hanging. I didn’t recall this story so I asked to read it, thinking that it might loosen the memory.
Kim’s face fell towards the fire pit. “It was in the burn pile,” she stammered.
It truly is and always will be perfect that the story is gone. I’m under no illusions that there was anything special worth saving in the story, “Fishing”. More important to me, was that I was a writer. I was practicing and working on developing a craft. I took a geography assignment and instead of doing whatever the teacher had likely expected (maybe cute pictures of fishing terms with a dictionary definition neatly printed below), I wrote a story about Dad and Jim, using the terms in the story to show the meaning. Way to go me!
Not everything needs to be saved because somewhere inside me, that lesson resides. If ever I write a story set in Newfoundland, I’ll use appropriate fishing and geography terms. Knowing when to let go and start a new story is essential. The old is not completely lost; it becomes part of the foundation of your craft. Sometimes it is best to let an old draft go and start from the beginning, like starting a new season.
