Memorabilia

If you have ever written me any note on any piece of paper or sent me a birthday card through the mail . . . if you ever sneaked notes into my folder when you worked at the Writing Center with me or placed notes under my pillow when we roomed together, you will be glad to know: I kept them. I kept them all. And I can't bear to part with any of them. The shoebox full of notes that I've received over the years is one of the few things I can't bear to throw away. Ever, I think. Probably because I remember the stories behind every single birthday card and every single note.

For instance, I found a gem someone gave me on my 21st birthday. It requires some context: my friend, at this point, had undergone foot surgery on her right foot, causing her to gimp along and me to dub her "Hopalong." In due retribution (and because it's just too easy because my right eye is completely blind and is actually, in part, a prosthetic--by the by, one of these days I'll treat you all to the fabulously hilarious story about how my eye fell out in the middle of my women's lit class when I was at good old WSU), she dubbed me Lefty. The card she gave me for my birthday that year reads like this (except that I've corrected the purposefully included typos, a strategy that all of my friends have been using for years to drive me slightly crazy on my birthday--but again, that is neither here nor there):

"Lefty, Remember: just because you are now legally an adult [doesn't mean] that you still can't act like a kid. Happy Birthday! I hope your birthday went well. I look forward to the ones to come. I promise you that when we become the crazy ladies up the street that if you remember to tell me to watch my step, I will remember to tell you if your eye is in straight. Or in at all. Hopalong"

(It still makes me giggle! Now you will all understand why it takes me so darn long to pack!)