By Ken Lass
You have one in your home. You have that place. You know, that place where you stash all your stuff. The random items you’ll never use again, but can’t quite bring yourself to throw away. So they sit there, gone and forgotten, until you rediscover them every few years. And then the memories come back.
Ken Lass, Tribune columnist
I was rummaging through our basement recently when I saw it, leaning up against the masonry block wall in a dark corner. It’s a wooden sled. We bought it at the old Herb’s Hardware store in Trussville when we heard there was snow in the forecast. Boy, was there ever snow. That was when we were hit by the historic winter storm of 1993. Thirteen inches of the fluffy white stuff.
Our kids were young then. We carried it to the sports park and rode up and down the hills for hours. It was one of the first times they had ever seen snow, and certainly the only time they experienced a layer of that magnitude. I’ll never forget the joy on their faces. When it melted away, the sled got put up in the basement. It’s been there ever since.
Close to the sled was a set of golf clubs, a painful reminder of my futile efforts to become a respectable golfer. Protruding high above the other clubs in the bag is my Big Bertha driver. I remember how excited I was to buy it. It was supposed to be guaranteed to add distance off the tee. And it worked. I found myself hooking the ball much deeper into the woods on my tee shots. I don’t know how long it’s been since I played golf, but there were spider webs on the bag.
On the floor to the left is a pink, battery-powered Barbie car. My daughter used to ride it around the driveway as a little girl. She loved that car. It has long since been inoperable but still has its parking spot in our lives. Our son had a fire truck and the two kids used to have races down the driveway. Not sure what became of his vehicle. I probably got rid of it after tripping over it several times.
On a nearby table is the miniature dog cage we used to transport our teacup chihuahua Clair. She passed away last year. It was actually our daughter’s dog, but she had to give it up when she moved into an apartment that didn’t allow pets. Clair became my buddy. She would climb up on my lap and, when I zipped down my warm-up jacket, she would snuggle inside to stay warm.
In the closet of our basement playroom rests a huge cardboard box full to the brim with Happy Meal toys. Sharon and I never went to nice restaurants when the kids were little. They only wanted to go to McDonald’s. Which was okay with us. The kids would take off for the play area while we sat at a table and ate in peace. In the process, we accumulated hundreds, maybe thousands, of Happy Meal prizes. Most of them were action figures from whatever hot movie was out. Batman, Superman, Little Mermaid, Tigger, ALF, Charlie Brown, I guess we saved them thinking one day they might be valuable. Now, thirty years later, they aren’t even worth a Big Mac. Still, for some crazy reason, we hang on to them.
Up in the attic there is a basketball autographed by Meadowlark Lemon. Any reader under the age of fifty has no idea who that is. He was the central star of the Harlem Globetrotters during the sixties and seventies. I got the autograph when I interviewed him during an appearance in Birmingham. Unfortunately, our attic is not climate controlled, so it is subject to extreme temperatures. That ball has expanded and contracted so often that it has deflated and now resembles an omelet that somebody sat on.
Also up there is a bowling trophy accompanied by a pair of bowling shoes. My team won a league championship around 35 years ago. The shoes now have a crack running across the heel. I’m sure if I tried to put them on they would disintegrate into dust around my feet.
In another box there lies a Green Bay Packers football jersey with my name sewn into the back. It was a gift from the Russell Company of Alexander City when they learned the Pack was my favorite team. At the time, Russell did all the NFL uniforms. Normally, that would be something I would wear proudly all the time. But it’s a real game jersey, meaning it’s meant to be worn by six foot four guys with shoulder pads on. When I slip it over my head, it comes down to my ankles.
There’s so much more stuff like this. It’s safe to say none of these things will ever be used again. I should get rid of them. But somehow, I never get around to it. I guess deep down inside, I really don’t want to.
If it’s been a while since you have taken a peek inside your junk place, I recommend it. The trip down Memory Lane is worth it.
After all, your junk is the story of your life.
