Trash and treasures mix and mingle
Having spent more than 30 years in newspaper newsrooms I can say, with some authority, that journalists for the most part are not neat people. There certainly are exceptions, but most of us save too much and throw away too little.
I also can say with a certain amount of authority (and little expected argument) that I am among the worst.
It’s a lifetime characteristic. I’ve always kept too many things.
So it was no surprise on a recent trip to my mother’s rural home, while cleaning out a storage area, that I found boxes with my name on them. It’s a home I haven’t lived in for decades, but there’s still stuff there with my name on it.
I sorted through five boxes filled with lots of memories and lots of stuff, including my first journalistic endeavors while still a college student. I tossed most of it, ending up with less than half a box of stuff that I actually still wanted.
There were many treasures, many memories, but perhaps the most precious was an old autograph book – seriously – a relic of the '60s. I remember getting it and having all my friends sign it and smiled when I looked at the childish scrawls and remembered those now long-distant memories that represented my friends.
Then, on the last page, I found the thing that made decades of being stacked in a box worthwhile.
It was the mid-1960s and among my teachers at LaPorte Junior High was a larger-than-life woman named Mrs. Porter. She taught reading, and maybe English as well, but the specifics weren’t important. She was as much about theatrics as teaching. Her longest-running act was her fondness for all things Texas and all things large. She refused to acknowledge the existence of Alaska as a state and told wonderful (frequently embellished) tales of Texas’ legendary heroes.
One day we had a guest in Mrs. Porter’s class. His name was Leon Hale and he was, at the time, a columnist for the now-defunct Houston Post. He’s still a well-known author and columnist who now writes for the Houston Chronicle. He told his tall tales, talked about writing, and generally impressed and entertained us.
I chatted with him briefly discussing the similarities between his upbringing and my mother’s. And I got his autograph.
As I gazed at that faded autograph among my “treasures,” I had to smile, knowing how far Leon and I both had come since that afternoon in Mrs. Porter’s classroom and pondering the impact of that long-ago encounter.
I also can say with a certain amount of authority (and little expected argument) that I am among the worst.
It’s a lifetime characteristic. I’ve always kept too many things.
So it was no surprise on a recent trip to my mother’s rural home, while cleaning out a storage area, that I found boxes with my name on them. It’s a home I haven’t lived in for decades, but there’s still stuff there with my name on it.
I sorted through five boxes filled with lots of memories and lots of stuff, including my first journalistic endeavors while still a college student. I tossed most of it, ending up with less than half a box of stuff that I actually still wanted.
There were many treasures, many memories, but perhaps the most precious was an old autograph book – seriously – a relic of the '60s. I remember getting it and having all my friends sign it and smiled when I looked at the childish scrawls and remembered those now long-distant memories that represented my friends.
Then, on the last page, I found the thing that made decades of being stacked in a box worthwhile.
It was the mid-1960s and among my teachers at LaPorte Junior High was a larger-than-life woman named Mrs. Porter. She taught reading, and maybe English as well, but the specifics weren’t important. She was as much about theatrics as teaching. Her longest-running act was her fondness for all things Texas and all things large. She refused to acknowledge the existence of Alaska as a state and told wonderful (frequently embellished) tales of Texas’ legendary heroes.
One day we had a guest in Mrs. Porter’s class. His name was Leon Hale and he was, at the time, a columnist for the now-defunct Houston Post. He’s still a well-known author and columnist who now writes for the Houston Chronicle. He told his tall tales, talked about writing, and generally impressed and entertained us.
I chatted with him briefly discussing the similarities between his upbringing and my mother’s. And I got his autograph.
As I gazed at that faded autograph among my “treasures,” I had to smile, knowing how far Leon and I both had come since that afternoon in Mrs. Porter’s classroom and pondering the impact of that long-ago encounter.
posted by Sheila Friedeck at 1:04 PM
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