Autobots: Roll Out

So 3 ½ years ago, almost to the day, I wrote “the truth is, she affected my life when I was 10 years old cuz she said yes when I asked her if she liked me. But now she’s a baseball card, a Hot Wheels car, a stuffed duck. The only use they serve is to populate a box of memories that might one day resurface in a trek of nostalgia.” Well, last weekend, I had that trek. My mom had some time off and decided to purge their crawlspace. Why? Well you can’t store and save and package and preserve more shit until you get rid of the old. So with my brother and I set to be propped up in the burbs for the weekend, it was an ideal situation to have us rip through boxes of our childhood, splitting everything into three simple piles: take with you, give away, throw away. No gray area, no ‘can we keep this a little while longer,’ no ‘I don’t have room for this, but you do!’ etc. If we didn’t take it, it was gone. As it turns out, this distinction became necessary.

Box 1: College. 95% trash. Pretty sure all I kept were some poker chips, and only with the intentions of passing them along to a friend that would use them more than I would. The rest was filled with useless crap that at one point held some sort of sentimental attachment, but across the board, nothing was even worth giving away, nevertheless keeping.

Box 2: Hot Wheels. Now these cars hold some memories. Can’t even begin to describe the hours spent with this four-wheeled fleet. I know it’s cheating since I just saw them all over the weekend, but I’m pretty sure I could name you make/model/color of at least three quarters of the collection (including the badass looking cars that came with temporary tattoos). I know which cars roll the farthest, which ones weigh the most, which ones are the best to break up a man-made Hot Wheels traffic jam (long story). I was immediately brought back to nights when my mom went out for a haircut and it was boys night in with my dad and brother, picking and rolling our collection of monster trucks, attempting to maximize distance (don’t sleep on Hickey). But after all the flashbacks, they didn’t have a place in my future. I’m imagining the idea of passing them down to a future son or daughter, but my childhood pride would probably step in and yell at the kid for not playing with them the right way. “No!! Bigfoot is the best one. Big Pete is just a stupid half broken truck!!!!” or something. So I grabbed the most nostalgic member (a beaten and chipped Green/White/Gray Nissan 300zx) and plopped the rest in the ‘give away’ pile. On to the next one.

Box 3: Transformers. Another unbelievable send back through time, though admittedly a larger part of my brother’s life than my own. The mildly abused toys from the 80s are still kickass, but along with Hot Wheels, there just wasn’t a place in my future that I found these fitting in. Additionally, I knew they would find a better home: My 30-year-old cousin who writes a blog called ‘Full-Grown Child.’ Vintage, collector items, and classic toys are his forte, so I’ve done well to keep them in the family.

Box 4: Everything that I ever accumulated on my 3 shelves that stood the test of time while I resided with my parents. I stuck so much shit on them, packed, balanced, rearranged, piled, and just plain buried every little trinket or postcard or necklace or keychain or trophy or bottle or feather or troll or baseball card or note or Grave Digger. When I moved out, I literally slid everything into one box, wrote ‘Chris’ Shelves’ on it, and drove off to the city. Well, needless to say, my Insane Clown Posse ‘Silent J’ doll didn’t make the cut. I saved a handful of random preciouses, and sent the rest to meet their demise.

Box 5: Childhood. We’re talking baptism candles, 2^nd grade report cards, a stained list of baby accomplishments (apparently I was pretty par), every card my parents received regarding my birth (many of which they couldn’t identify the sender), hospital bracelets, classroom birthday gifts, and even the gimmick-type ‘awards’ that teachers give out for being a good friend and not gluing your hands to the table. Most of it was kind of fun to see. What I saved? My two favorite childhood books (The Saggy Baggy Elephant and Where the Wild Things Are), my hospital bracelet with my birth time and date, three pages from a book of 2^nd graders telling me why they liked me for my birthday, and that stained list of things I accomplished as a baby, like taking my first wobbly step. The rest? Torpedoed. Jettisoned into the abyss of trash, lost forever. I’m a grown-up, right?

As I began my departure home, I callously chirped ‘had fun throwing away my childhood.’ To be honest, it felt good to rid myself of so many things I was holding on to. These poorly drawn cartoon characters and faded mini plastic football helmets, what are they worth to me now? I don’t need to see my markered-blue Toyota MR-2 to remind me of rolling cars down my best friend’s long ass sidewalk. I don’t need to see the unfortunate looking necklace I wore for half of high school to remind me that I dressed like a tool. I don’t need the 3^rd grade report card confirming what I still face, ‘tons of talent, lacks motivation.’ These are things that I cherish as it is, and the excess of junk that piled up over the years, things I was too afraid to throw away for fear of regretting it, these were all things that, in the grand scheme of my life, have no place in it.

It was fun to reminisce with my family and a bottle of whiskey, but it’s hard to move onto the future if you have one hand holding onto the past.