When we were prepping our house to sell, I was forced to deal with a pair of aging, overstuffed metal filing cabinets in the darkest, dampest part of our basement. Nothing about this was appealing, least of all confronting the demons that helped to get them there in the first place.
When I acquired the cabinets years before, they were found treasure. A neighbor had put them out for ‘free cycling,’ the urban concept of leaving usable items on the sidewalk after posting them as free for the taking. Not one to pass up such a deal, I rushed to give the cabinets a second life at our house. In return, they would give me peace by clearing my desk from piles of files, thus liberating my horizon from clutter, my most dreaded foe.
The short, dumpy, dark gray cabinets did not disappoint. With a little effort, my files became neatly housed in an out-of-sight place, and the expanse of my desk turned into a wide, inviting space. This freedom from clutter allowed me to focus on my writing without the persistent distraction and desire to clear and clean everything in sight, an obsession so strong that once I got started, it did not end until I was on my hands and knees with Clorox and a battery-operated toothbrush whitening and brightening my baseboards. (Because Lord knows, that is something company will judge me on.)
Along with my other deeply embedded mental peculiarities, I was reared to believe that all jobs must be completed before engaging in a self-fulfilling activity. While writing is a form of work, it is something that I do solely for myself and not for the benefit of others. Therefore, as defined by the agrarian culture from which I came, it is not technically a job and must take a backseat until ‘work’ is done. Then, and only then, can I sit guilt-free at my desk.
As the years rolled along, I collected hundreds of articles about home décor and improvement, and the free-cycle cabinets turned into the very clutter they had once served to eradicate. I didn’t dare open the drawers because I knew what lurked within. To someone else, the cabinets were simply filled with drab olive green hanging files, but not to me. The bulk housed carefully labeled projects I had sincerely planned to undertake but never did; ergo, they indicated failure to live up to my own high expectations.
Mind you, this has nothing to do with reality whatsoever, but my frustration with my imaginary failures led me to act and think irrationally. During my episodic cleaning frenzies, I would relentlessly ram the vacuum into the base of the files as if that would somehow loosen the drawers and before you could say, “open sesame,” my failures would magically take flight like Aladdin on his carpet.
By now, you are probably thinking that there is therapy or a pharmaceutical that could help me with all, and you are right. Both.
When a date certain for putting our house on the market went on the calendar, time was on my back. Now, I was determined to mow through the files with haste. This meant not stopping to revisit this curated collection of designs and projects that “might could possibly” someday be useful at our next house or the not-yet-realized one that we hoped to find in Key West. Despite a strong instinct to keep just the best, I summoned the strength to terminate each tasteful idea with extreme prejudice.
Things were speeding along, and I felt great until I ran into two special files, one labeled “For H and S on Their 16th Birthdays,” and the other, “All Things Lost,” neither of which had anything to do with the Pantone Color of The Year or trendy light fixtures that greatly amused my inner lamp whore.
The first file was the handiwork of a fearful mother. It was a ragged-edge collection of gut-wrenching accounts of deadly teenage acts of stupidity such as drunk-driving. My plan was to present it to my children when they got old enough to be behind the wheel, hopefully ensconcing the fear of God into their as-yet-not fully developed brains prone to dumb, irreversible mistakes. As it turns out, this was an unnecessary file because the lessons of not drinking and driving had been neatly handled by their schools and driver’s ed programs, so I tossed it and spared myself from upsetting the family apple cart.
The second file was thicker, and not so easy to toss. It was a collection of articles about lost items that had mysteriously made their way back to their owner. The notion that special things can be lost but then found after many years holds special fascination for me, most likely because it fits neatly with my belief that everything can be fixed or repaired, a very loose interpretation of Presbyterianism.
I often wondered if these reunions are proof of a supernatural component within the universe that moves like a magnificent conveyor belt beneath us, sorting out our lives and slipping us neatly into the precise places and moments where we are meant to be. It goes round and round, and if we don’t get where we need to be at first, there will be other chances at different points in time. This includes the opportunity for a lost item to fall back into the hands of someone that had long given up hope of ever seeing it again.
Lost wedding and class rings always seem to be found in the strangest of places. They have been discovered thousands of miles from where they were last known to have been, sometimes in foreign flea markets or in the bellies of ocean fish. They pop up in gardens, like the one that was found so tightly wrapped around a carrot that it resembled a golden belt pinching in a waistline like Scarlett O’Hara’s famed corset.
While some of these rings take decades to work their way back home, what is even more remarkable is that the ‘finders’ did not become ‘keepers,’ with some embarking on long journeys to reunite rings and other jewelry with the rightful owners.
My file also included stories of lost dogs and cats that make their way back to their families after being separated by miles and sometimes years. Guided by a powerful, internal gyroscope that defies scientific explanation, pets can manage to find ‘home’ even when their owners have moved cross-country.
These stories instantly transport me back to my childhood when, seated in front of my parents’ black and white TV, I watched the final episode of the three-part series, “Lassie, The Odyssey.” Like little Timmy, I was an only child whose best friend slept at the end of her bed. After all hope for Lassie’s return is lost, and Timmy goes out to bury her toys at their secret spot, Lassie races across the field and leaps into Timmy’s arms. According to my mom, I burst into tears and cried out, “I love my dog, too.”
If there is a precise moment in time when the fantasy of a perfect childhood can be shattered, perhaps this was mine. Prior to this story being aired by CBS in March 1962, nothing bad had ever happened in my life. I had never experienced loss in any form, and the sensation of it overwhelmed me. Though I was only five years old, the loss of Lassie engrained in me a deep, deep fear of losing something that I treasured, and in my tiny mind, the best way to prevent such horror was to put Every Single Thing in an exact, never-changing place that I alone chose and controlled.
As an only child, this was an easy task. Without brothers and sisters to go marauding through my possessions, I never had to worry that my precious things would go missing or that my favorite dresses would be pilfered from my closet. I also did not have to hover over my plate to prevent hands from dive-bombing my food like a flock of pestiferous seagulls. Rather, I could take my time and eat slowly and precisely, selecting what I ate off my plate with deliberate intent.
All this lovely singularity would drive one of my cousins to a form of madness, and when I wasn’t looking, she would methodically pull the heads off my Barbies and dunk them in muddy puddles. But I am over that now, no matter how much they would have been worth today, and remarkably, she did not turn out to be a serial killer.
This is not to imply that I have been immune to loss. No such luck. Like the ocean that reaches out with foamy fingers for a child’s toy left on the sand, life has washed over me, taking what she wants. Of all the things she has plundered – diamond earrings, gold bracelets, college sweatshirts, umbrellas, and a particular coffee mug that said, “Sink or Swim with Teddy,” the ones that hurt the most are the friends that are no more.
Because I did not have siblings, I have spent my life collecting friends. They are as important to me as any family could ever be, as varied as swatches of fine fabric in a interior designer’s showcase. When added to my array of cousins (including the mean one that destroyed my Barbies) they have come together like a patchwork quilt that serves as both my comforter and safety net.
Over time, the edges of this well-loved quilt have raveled, and odd pieces have frayed but remained attached, sometimes by just the slightest of threads. Other pieces have fallen away through no one’s fault, just time and distance, but they could be replaced by new swatches. However, those that fell into total disrepair have left gaping holes that cannot be fixed, leaving me to wear these very visible failures like a hairshirt.
The recent loss of one such friend was partially – actually, mostly -- my fault. In the effort to explain a pain she had inflicted on me during a dire period in my life, I thrust the sharp blade of honesty through the heart of our friendship. In the process, I managed to sever the close ties that had bound us for decades. Now, she is ‘done with me,’ and I have no other choice than to be okay with that; I must respect her wishes.
Why honesty has this effect on people, I do not know. Personally, I interpret someone’s honesty – no matter how it makes me feel in the moment -- as a sign of their trust and faith in our relationship because it is more important than ego. After all, none of us are mind readers, and holding on to perceived slights, hurts, and grudges makes about as much sense as picking up a rattlesnake on the premise that if you point its head in someone’s direction, they will be the ones to get bitten and die. The mechanics of this escape me, but the visual image is intriguing.
By the same token, a lack of honesty with not only others but yourself can also undo relationships. Recently, another friend turned away from a group of tightly bonded women that had been a recognized ‘unit’ for more than 15 years. She never offered explanation or acknowledged her departure, leaving us all to wander ‘why?’
If asked or confronted, I am not sure she could or would explain her actions because it would involve taking a hard look within – not her strong suit, so once again, it is a situation beyond repair and mainly because she does not want it fixed. At least, that is my Carnac the Magnificent interpretation of the mess.
During COVID, when we were restricted to our homes with little else to do other than eat, play cards, drink, eat, do puzzles, eat, and drink some more, I took a break from my daily overdose of news coverage to watch one of my children’s favorite cartoon movies, The Iron Giant. Set in the beginning of the Cold War, the movie chronicles the friendship between Hogarth, a young boy and an only child -- of course, and a giant alien robot that, while friendly, is programmed to kill when it feels threatened. Like most only children that can make friends with anyone, Hogarth teaches the robot it can choose not to kill and use its powerful properties for good.
But the story does not end here. Led by a zealous secret agent, the Army sets out to destroy the robot with nuclear weapons. When the robot realizes that one of the bombs has accidentally discharged and will obliterate Hogarth and his town, it selflessly grabs the weapon and flies it into outer space where it detonates.
All that remains of the robot is a single bolt which the Army gifts to Hogarth, and he sits it on his windowsill next to his bed. One night, the bolt begins to roll around, tapping on the window as if to say, ‘let me go.’ Hogarth opens the window, and the bolt begins a trek to the Arctic where the head of the Iron Giant rests, sending out bleating signals that summon all its scattered pieces back to him.
Paul Simon sang, ‘losing love is like a window in your heart, everyone can see you are blown apart.’ This I know to be true. I feel a bit like the blown apart Iron Giant, and not a day goes by that my heart does not send out its own bleating signal to the friends that I have lost, asking them to find their way back.
In a demonstration of faith that this ‘might could possibly’ happen, I not only kept my little “All Things Lost” file, I added my friends’ photos and small mementos of our times together. I am not sure they want to come back, or if we could ever leap over the twin hurdles of forgive and forget that would be required to rebuild our trust in one another, but I hold out hope that someday, somehow, all the dinged and dented pieces of my heart will be returned, and I will be whole again.
Last night Frank and I walked over to the Fat Dragon, a Chinese restaurant not far from our little apartment in Richmond. After dinner, the fortune cookies were delivered. Since I collect all my lucky numbers and use the most frequent ones to play the lottery, I quickly broke open my cookie to check for repeats. Instead, the fortune caught my attention.
Your lost possession will be found within the month.
While I know that people are not possessions, my heart still skipped a beat. Was it possible? Could it be? Would one or both of my lost friends soon be returned to me like a ring found on a deep sandy beach? Would the ocean give just one back? It has happened before! Why not? Yes, universe, please!
Unlike childhood treasures, friends are not something you can keep safe on an out-of-reach shelf where they can be admired but not enjoyed. Rather you must hold them tight and dear in your heart where, from time to time, you may risk both loss and ruin. But, if you are incredibly blessed, they will hold you tight and dear in theirs as well.
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