I came across a cache of old photos and invitations to teenage parties.
"Dress in white" one said with quotations from someone's wife,
a famous writer in the 1920's...
-Pet Shop Boys, Being Boring, 1990In preparation for the move, I'm being quite ruthless with my hoardings. I spent 4 hours last night going through old boxes of photos, letters, and mementoes. Though it was tough, I managed to cull about half of it, though a good half of that ended up going to Nick. After intense negotiations, we agreed that Nick should have custody of Andy's hair. Andy's hair was a wedding present from Andy (no coincidence). The significance of Andy's hair escapes me now, but I remembered we were both very touched when we received it on our wedding day. But I decided I already have enough hair which belonged to other people. I've had my great-grandmother Grafton's plait hanging on my wall for the last 10 years or so. She had typhoid fever when she was 14 (though I don't know how, since she lived in the country and wasn't poor), and so they cut off her hair (probably to aid the application of the leeches). She kept it tied up in a plait, and when I came along 70 years later I helped her to brush it out and keep it in good condition. Then she used to pin it on to my own head like some 1970's proto-extension, and I'd wear it around all day swinging it behind me. That story usually makes people feel nauseous, but it makes me happy. About 10 years ago, I decided to take it out of the cloth it had been wrapped in for nearly 100 years and put it in a box frame. Which makes an interesting feature, but is less beautiful now that it's faded from auburn to mousy brown. It reminds me, albeit in a much less macabre way, of the mountain of
hair on display at Auschwitz, which originally must have been from every shade of the hair-shade spectrum but now looks more like vacuum cleaner lint.
In further excavations, I came across the wedding cards. Keep or bin? Not only is saying "good luck" to newlyweds actually bad luck, akin to saying "Macbeth" in a theatre, but it is simply bad etiquette. According to the "Woman's Guide to Etiquette" (1924), one should offer only "best wishes" to the couple, as the luck they have in their marriage, good or otherwise, is entirely of their own often tragic making. And the love letters. Actually written on paper (a beer mat is paper, right?), in a bygone era before email and text messaging.
More letters. Letters from my best friend (age 3-15) who I stopped talking to for forgotten reasons, letters from my best friend (age 15-23) who stopped talking to me for unknown reasons. Letters from my Irish pen pal, who still swaps Christmas emails with me every few years. Letters of academic recognition. A letter from the National Anti-Vivisection Society offering a (token) scholarship. A letter from President Bush the First thanking me for my letter and assuring me that whatever I was complaining about is very important to him. A letter from HM Immigration informing me that HM is jolly sorry, but would I awfully mind fucking off out of her country and never coming back.
And then the photos from the school days, which reminded me of the innocent time half a lifetime ago when I was cock-sure that I was going to change the world. Photos of cleaning a beach with the other "Environment Club" members. Photos of planting trees and photos of us dressing as clowns to protest the circus (we made little children cry, I'll never forgive myself). Photos of good friends whose names I've forgotten. Photos of good friends who I've only just found again.
Marguerite's in there. With a plate on her head re-enacting a scene from
Heart of Darkness. I remember sitting at the back of some class (some kind of maths, but I forget which) with Marguerite mixing the letters on the computer keyboards (we were the only school in the city to have a computer lab at the time--I think we had 10 computers or so) and cheating at our exams. BTW kids, cheating sometimes (but only sometimes) doesn't pay. We both failed our final exam and had to re-sit it anyway. When we graduated, Marguerite threw an "Oh Wow! It's a Luau!" and send out invitations on paper doilies (what are paper doilies for, anyway?), one of which I found in the box.
April's in there, too. April is the only other person on the planet who understood my love for Joe Genaro, lead singer of The Dead Milkmen. I lost her Camper van Beethoven tape in Italy and I don't think she ever forgave me. There was Elizabeth, who co-founded the "Animal Rights Club" with me, and skulked around department stores inserting "Fur is Murder" brochures into expensive coats. In Florida. There was Dagny, who I aspired to be. She was skinny and beautiful and wore green tights in all weathers. She now has I think 4 PhDs and has graduated from several of the Ivy League universities. And was eventually partnered with Raymond, who is also in the photos and is now a librarian. Raymond was so incredibly gorgeous and funny and intelligent. I don't know why I never fancied him. Instead I spent 3 years pining for Jay, who was actually rather gay (and he was the only one who didn't know it). I have a lot of photos of Jay for some reason.
Seems like only yesterday. In a Book of Genesis sort of way.
