The Right Stuff, and So Much of It

It's a delightful surprise to find things like this, but what to do with it?

Boxes are only piled one or two high, so it can’t be that bad. Then again, there are a lot of two-box piles sitting around my basement these days. 

It’s a thin line between history and hoarding. While I know very well where I sit on that line, it’s a challenge to make sure it goes in the right direction. 

About a year and a half ago, my mom died. She was worried about all the pictures in her basement and we had gone through some things together. But in the final weeks of her life she fretted about those pictures in a way I thought was kind of odd. 

And then, after she was gone, I opened the boxes. 

My family has a lot of pictures and I knew that. My father was a photographer, so we have more family photos than most families from that era have. In the 1960s and 1970s, cameras weren’t the common household item they are today and parents weren’t as interested in recording every moment of their children’s lives.

A kindergarten field trip to see Santa.

But my dad was there with his camera. Not just for the professional reasons such as weddings and babies and graduations. He was there with his camera when our Girl Scout troop marched in parades, when my kindergarten class visited Santa at the bank, when my little brothers helped make curds at the cheese factory of a friend of his, when we rode horses at my uncle’s farm and for every birthday party one could imagine.

That’s what I knew was in the boxes. What I found wasn’t just the family photos, but essentially a complete archive of my family’s history. It took my breath away.

There were scrapbooks my mom put together when she was in grade and high school, complete with programs from school plays or basketball games. There were two framed religious plaques honoring her First Communion. There was a copy of a children's Christmas book from her big brother, with the words, “To Betty Jane: From Eugene” written inside. 

Hollandale High School rah rah rah!

There were my father’s high school letters won in a variety of sports for a school that does not exist anymore. There were mementoes of Army days and even a few letters between my parents, something about picking out a couch just weeks before they were married.

Moving on through their lives turned up seemingly every handmade card we kids – all six of us – made for them. Little bunnies with cotton balls for tails that say, “Happy Easter To Mommy and Daddy.” Tulips created with crayons that signify a Happy Mother’s Day, with or without a proper apostrophe.

Cotton tail still in place.

The most amazing find was a bag that contained every card my parents received when my oldest sister, their firstborn, arrived in 1959. It was a wonderful snapshot of a moment in time – who was alive then in our family, who was alive then in our town and who my parents’ friends were at the time.

It was a treasure trove and I breathed a sigh of relief that I didn’t find that stuff celebrating my birth. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.

It was an easy “first edit” to go through the stuff – if I didn’t know the person, I threw the photo away (sorry, Mom’s high school classmates.) Negatives could go because technology means we can always scan the prints. The first edit was done in my mom’s basement in the weeks after she died. It’s time to dive back in.

My left foot

This is where the hard choices will come, and I already unexpectedly face a conundrum. Just the other day I found something I missed the first time around: the stash of stuff that accompanied my entry into this world. There’s a beautiful birth certificate, complete with my footprints, and a birth announcement in my mother’s handwriting. Best of all is a little pink bootie that served as an invitation from the local bank to start a savings account. It’s still in the envelope addressed to my parents, postmarked two days after I was born.

We’re fortunate in my community that we have a strong historical society that is interested in collecting the everyday minutiae of life as well as things of obvious historical value. So while the historical society has my dad’s photo collection, I also gave them my mom’s library card. They’ll get the pink bootie, too. Eventually.

I have friends whose parents who were hoarders and had to take care of those households when their parents died. My mom had a lot of stuff but it doesn’t come close to qualifying as hoarding – even I could understand the significance of nearly every item she saved. 

I always wondered where I got my love for history; it didn’t seem to be a passion of any sort for either of my parents. Now I know.

My parents didn’t hoard, but they had a way of hoarding history. They saw the value in the story of our lives. That makes for way too many boxes in my basement and I still have no clue what we're going to do with most of this stuff, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

A little bootie to help a little girl baby sock away some savings.

The little bootie was still in the envelope sent from a bank that no longer exists.

Considering the safety of this would-be baby toy, it's probably best it was left in the original envelope.

Be Like Mike? No Thanks

Basketball in ye olden tymes of yore, when the girls didn't even get uniforms.

Soaring through the air has always seemed like it would be really cool.

Having millions of dollars would be nice, too.

And to be the best in the world at something, that would be unimaginably amazing.

But you know, these days, I’m pretty happy to not Be Like Mike.

Last month, Sports Illustrated ran a heart-wrenching story of the man who was Michael Jordan’s high school basketball coach. Legend has it, this man cut Jordan from the team his sophomore year and provided the motivational spark that helped create a legendary player.

Turns out the legend was wrong.

Jordan never got cut; he simply didn’t get promoted to varsity that year. Seems ridiculous in retrospect, but the coach needed a tall player on varsity and MJ wasn’t there yet. In the years since, including during a painful Hall of Fame acceptance speech, Jordan has taken every chance to throw in a few digs at the coach who “cut” him and the player who did make the varsity.

How’s that for thanks to a man who, like so many coaches, gave of his time and talent to help young people? The sad part of the story is the troubled life that coach has led ever since, a fact that still didn’t keep Jordan from getting his digs in every once in a while.

That story didn’t just capture my attention for its content, it grabbed my attention because at the very same time it came out, my former teammates and I were planning an event to say thanks to our high school coach. We didn’t go on to be millionaires, we didn’t even go on to be very athletic but clearly we grew up to be people who can appreciate a good deed when one is turned.

And what a good deed coaching girls in the 1970s was.

Forty years ago this summer, Title IX passed, mandating that institutions that received federal funds must provide equal opportunities for males and females. Girls' sports went from intramural to varsity status in the states that weren't offering that already, which was most of them. Everything the boys had, the girls were supposed to have, too.

Well, sort of.

It was such a thrill to be able to play, I actually forgot a few key details of the era. For starters, in my freshman year we didn’t even have uniforms. We played in our old gymsuits, with pinnies on them with numbers. What I did remember was I was No. 11 because I have no artistic skills whatsoever and that was the easiest number to make with athletic tape.

We played in grade-school gyms that sometimes weren’t even regulation size. We had to share locker rooms with the teams who just killed us, which, sadly, happened a lot.

Our coach was a typing and business teacher at the school who had no athletic background beyond the old intramural system, because it simply wasn’t offered to her. But she was instrumental in making sure we had the chance she didn’t have.

To this day, our coach apologizes for what she didn’t know about basketball.  To this day, we still don’t care. We got to play, and that’s what we cared about most of all.

So much of life is about celebrating the winners. Sometimes it’s necessary to celebrate those who were there. My teammates and I got that chance and it was amazing to revisit all this with the perspective of an adult. I had no idea one of my teammates had a stalker and I loved how my coach asked the question, “OK, how many of you drank during the season?” (The answer, from one teammate: “What did you think? I lived above a bar.”)

MJ can have his Hall of Fame career and the Hall of Fame chip on his shoulder. I’ll take those long bus rides and half-size gyms and wouldn’t change a thing.

Well, maybe I’d lose the gymsuit.

Eventually the uniforms arrived. Matching socks, not so much.