I went to camp once. Once.

It was great and terrible at the same time, but that's not really the point. I got memories from those two weeks that put a smile on my face every time I think about them. I was at camp the first time I heard the song "Patches," and I still love that song so much. Man, what a song. But also, I hated camp like all get out. I mean...that was the first I ever thought: "If this is a dream, I wanna wake up now. I don't like this anymore." But it wasn't a dream. It was for real and while I didn't love it all the time, I'm glad I went. I mean, I feel bad for people that never went to camp when they were kids. Even if you hated it (all of it or some of it), I think it's good to have gone...and I've only appreciated that in my old-ish age.

One of the "lessons" I learned at camp was the power of mail. Mail can be really, really rewarding. It can be a drug. You can become addicted to it, I think. I mean, it can make you giggle lickety-split. Then again, it can bring some tears, too, of course, but that's not really what I'm trying to focus on right now. I got some mail today and I'm trying to focus on the smiles. I got nine boxes. Big ones, actually. Nine. Big. Boxes. I didn't know she had this much stuff. She...she...her...her her her her her her her her her her...Mom. It's funny how things you can't stop from coming end up coming and hitting you in ways you never thought they would. I went through a lot of crap about my mom dying. At first I thought it was something I could wrap my head around...something I could "see coming" and all that silliness. I was dead wrong about that (pun unintended, but punny nonetheless). There's no such thing as "see it coming," and when it's right in front of you...when IT...whatever IT is...is right in front of you...you're doing something for the first time. That's kinda awesome. That's the way I've started to see it these days. But the point of me talking about this instead of a lot of other stuff I can talk about is...I'm looking at these boxes and I'm looking at this box cutter and...I'm pretty excited about getting into these suckers.

Her stuff.

I only barely know the person who boxed all of it up for her...for me. He's a nice, nice man who knew her in her...later years. He sent me some really important mail. Maybe the most important mail I've ever gotten...since Mom sent my postcards from Reno when I was at camp. This time, I had to go to the train station downtown with Bill's car to haul it all home and I'm so happy they're here, these boxes, and I'm looking at them, waiting for the moment to become neck-deep in Mom and her stuff. I'm gonna do it. I'm about to do it. I actually...can't wait to do it. I think this gonna be really good for me. I'm gonna throw on "Music from Big Pink," one of Mom's favorite albums (I bet her vinyl copy is in one of these boxes!), and I'm gonna tear into these here boxes.

My goal is to be open to any and all memories that flood into my brain as I sift through her stuff. It all happened, good and bad, and I think I need to spend some time on this specific stretch of Memory Lane. If it's alright with you, Internet, I'm gonna use my blog as a mouthpiece for some stories and stuff that churn up as I root through it all. I won't force it on you. If you feel like I do, let me know. I don't mean to or want to. This won't be anything exclusive. If I get really hacked off at the dry cleaners, believe me, I'll let you know about it. Or if you wanna ask me something specific, you know I'm all ears. But I'm setting a goal for myself. I wanna thumb through it...no real pace...no organization. Just...looking. And I'm feeling like I kinda wanna write about it. About her. I just...writing stuff down has become really useful to me. The blog is good for that...for me. Hope you don't mind...

Here I go...box one is...

Open...