Collecting Memories

Note several days later: the end of this post is rated R--for both "Restricted" and "Risque". I've changed the original wording, but still caution any new readers.

I have kept a journal ever since my tenth birthday when mom and dad gave me a cute bound book with Precious Moments on the faux leather white cover. I began by writing about my friends, about whatever boy I had a crush on that week, about all things pre-pubescent. I graduated to writing of my dramatic high school teen angst, about my idealistic philosophies, my goals and my rants. Because I analyzed absolutely everything, the page became my therapist.

A few years ago I caught a friend of mine burning her journals outside in a small fire. When I asked her why, she said that she was married now, that the journals contained information about a previous relationship, that keeping them would be disrespectful to her husband. As she threw the pages individually into the flame, we watched the written memories blaze, then reduce to ashes and blow away in the breeze. I considered my own box of memories tucked away in the attic waiting to whisper my secrets to anyone who sought them or even accidentally happened upon them. Were the stories of boyfriends past, the documentations of mistakes I wished I hadn't made, somehow secretly poisoning my marriage? What if Carl read them? Should I burn them before they burned us?

I decided no. Those journals contained no secrets from Carl or from anyone for that matter. Sure, I made some decisions in my youth that I would change if I could, but burning a page does not destroy the past. I realized that Carl probably knew all of the "big" things contained in my diaries and that he was strong enough to handle those that he didn't. I have since learned that he is disinterested. Either that, or he would rather not know. Whichever it is, it's fine by me.

As I live farther and farther in time from my earlier entries, I become less embarrassed by the stupid things I did and more chagrined by my overwhelming self-absorption. Some things never change.

I just realized: destroying my journals would also eliminate the good memories contained therein. I'll leave you with this anecdote, one about which I wrote and stashed away up there somewhere. If I could find it easily, I would re-read it for accuracy. As it is, I'll have to depend upon my memory.

The summer after my freshman year of college I went to San Francisco with a high school friend, Nancy. One morning we walked from our hotel to an outdoor restaurant near the Golden Gate Bridge for some breakfast. The morning air was cool and foggy and we enjoyed a freedom we didn't yet know to appreciate. As we leisurely ate our breakfast and watched people go by, we noticed a lady walking from the bridge in heels. One of her heels was broken, causing her to limp. Her hair and makeup were a mess and her clothes, though new, were disheveled. She hobbled to a pay phone, tried to place a call, hung up and looked right at us. To our surprise, she invited herself to sit with us and began to tell her story with a distinctly Irish accent.

She and her boyfriend had gone to a party together the night before. Though she gave us quite a few details, I don't recall them. I only remember that she and the guy had a disagreement or an all out fight and he left her at the party. Still in our late teens, Nancy and I listened with shocked amusement as the lady told us that she got trashed and passed out at the party and that her walk across the bridge that morning was her hungover trek home. Boy was she pissed! As her story continued she became more animated, waving her hands as she explained that she had tried to call the boyfriend before leaving the party that morning and had tried again to call him from the pay phone, but he wasn't answering.

Her story surprised us more by the fact that it came from a complete stranger than by its content. That is, until the final sentence. With uninhibited candor she concluded her tale by informing us in her Irish brogue, "I don't know what he's thinking, but I'll tell you one thing for sure. By God, there'll be no bleeeep tonight!" We nearly fell out of our chairs.

It wouldn't matter if I burned that journal entry--the memory is forever seared into my brain.