The Box

When I came home from Chicago last weekend, there was a large box in the back of my truck that my mom snuck in there before I left.

I found stuff that I thought was lost forever or had forgotten about. Some of it trash and some of it treasure.

My dad's old camera from the 70's - a Polaroid Square Shooter 2. Worth like $5 on eBay (yes I checked), but it's something my dad was into at one time.

3 trophies One of two firemen at the top for 1st place in a poster contest in 1st grade. Maybe that's where my, uh, admiration of firemen came from ;-)

The second and third for playing basketball in 1990 and 1992. I don't remember playing much in 1990, but I remember the team in 1992 because I was one of two girls on the whole league and the only white kid on the league. I was also the tallest and wasn't any good. Yea, that was a sucky year in kids sports!

Stuff with signatures and messages all over it. For whatever reason, whenever I left a school, I had to have them sign sometime. I have a couple of t-shirts and a bike helmet, all covered in signatures, messages and silly catch phrases from then.

Some posters, tour guides, and post cards from my 2 week tour of Europe. Can't read any of it, don't know what any of it says, but hey, it's from Europe.

Do you remember Caboodles? Well, there's one in there. But not the fun colorful ones with many compartments. This is an old one from the late 60's. I decorated the top with "Sissy's Traveling Case" and pictures drawn all over it, trying to make it look cool. It later became a place to store pictures, post cards, letters from friends and stuff I wrote.

And folders. Many many folders of English assignments. Essays, stories, reports, and poetry. I read through all of them. I had to force myself through it. I was embarassed reading it all in the privacy of my own home. Wow, what a writer I thought I was at the time.

But the most prized possession of them all that I found was something I kept going back to throughout my teenage years. My 8th grade English teacher had us all write a poem and submit it to get published. None of us succeeded, but I was the only one to get a "positive" response; asking me to resubmit it after a few changes.

I would leave it alone, and come back several months later to play with it some more. I was determined to make it perfect. Finally, about 18 months later, I resubmitted it, and it was published. I don't know if the publication just felt sorry for me after trying so hard or what, but I was so proud. My parents don't know about it because I thought it was so cool to be a secret writer.

So that everyone can share in my humiliation of sitting back, with proof in my hands of the silly things I did, said and thought, I thought I would share what was published. And for the record, my poetry days are well over. Thank God!

Walking along the water,
with a thunderstorm in my mind;
making it so confusing
to follow how I feel inside.

I have so many memories here,
like sitting with the shore;
and when I questioned, like a friend,
its waves whispered, "Worry no more,"

I can't forget that summer wind,
or when thunder spoke my name.
Now memories come down and I feel,
as if I'm drowning in the rain.

And as I walk along the beach,
the earth begins to tremble.
Yet it says leaving is not the end;
but can it really be that simple?

Then the clouds smile and say
to head straight for my dreams;
and the suns warmth assures me
of what this challenge can truly mean.

Walking along the water,
a wave of questions in my mind.
Gently being calmed by answers,
helping me through life's changes with time.