The Paper Trail
Decade N° 5: A Not-so-Average Blog on Middle Age
Month 11 (Part Deux)
Assessing my overload of pulp nonfiction.
I heard the low groan of the spring on our back storm door when my husband John entered the midcentury rancher we’ve shared for thirty-three years. He looked puzzled.
“I just pulled the recycle bin down to the curb,” he said. “What was in there?”
As I pondered my spouse’s question, he gave me more to work with: “It weighed a ton.”
Oooooooooohhh!! Mystery solved. The previous weekend I had gone through a container of postgraduate classwork from the early aughts. I hadn’t realized just how much heft the discarded documents held.
I’ve always been one to hang on to things. I still have books I was given as a baby, jewelry I wore in grade school, and my first car. These items remain as useful as they were in their heyday. There is a dark side to my habit, however, aptly represented by the graduate school materials. I have an affection towards paper.
When something is printed, it becomes real. It’s like a Zoom call compared to a person standing in front of you — the online version is great, but the live has so much more to give. Printed paper is accessible; you can hand it to someone. Paper requires an investment of trees with which to make it, and space in which to store it.
Paper calls for a commitment.
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When it comes to excess stuff, one would think that having a 1979 Volkswagen Beetle sitting in the driveway would cause guilt. Instead, my feelings of shame have always revolved around my passion for paper: the bulging file folders in my office; the 3”-high mail pile in the kitchen; the unread issues of VOGUE magazine — both current and “vintage” — neither of which I can give up until each advertisement has been examined and every article absorbed.
The most worrisome of all my paper paraphernalia, however, lies in my mementos. Greeting cards, funeral programs, matchbooks, vacation confirmations — each piece showcasing my every move since middle school. If the game show This is Your Life was represented by paper rather than people, I would be immediately be deemed a winning contestant.
For years I’ve been plagued with doubt about my paper problem. I’m a devotee of Marie Kondo’s KonMari Method of tidying, but I think I need to contact her directly for additional guidance. According to the decluttering expert, the “correct order for tidying” is as such:
1. Clothes
2. Books
3. Papers
4. Komono: miscellaneous items like charger cords, cleaning supplies, etc.
5. Sentimental items
Kondo’s list was created to help the decisionmaker move from objects that are easiest to discard to those that are the most challenging. But for me, the mid-level category, “Papers”, and advanced category, “Sentimental items”, blend into one difficult, space-hogging issue. Although I’ve pondered the idea of chucking it all — like tearing off a bandage — and being done with it, I can’t bring myself to do it. Here’s why:
Some people summon memories through a scent, like honeysuckle triggering thoughts of playing outdoors as a child. For others, hearing a certain song propels them back to a season of life. For me, reading a simple piece of paper kicks all of my emotions into gear: birthday cards written by my grandmother when she was the age I am now; sketches of dresses that awaken fond recollections of my bridal clients; the program and ticket stubs from The Nutcracker dated December 12, 1992, when the stage lights of the darkened theater shone on the engagement ring I had received just hours before.
I have committed to going through my proliferation of paper. If I can’t remember the origin of an item or it brings discomfort of any kind, I respectfully discard it. The less intimate pages, such as the notes, essays, and group project agendas from my Master’s program made for a great place to start.
I’m going to let go of my guilt, deeming the collection that remains my “artist’s archive.” Each piece represents people and places that inspired me, and I’m willing to carry the extra weight. In this digital age, tangible reminders of each decade are important to our nation’s history. And important to mine.
