Facing the Past

talk about a head case!

It was quite a shock when I came upon dozens of heads stuffed in the back of my closet.

Before you attempt to contact law enforcement, I should probably explain.

For more than two decades I’ve carried three briefcases with me from home to home, and each time, I stuff them in the back of my closest. I don’t open them up because they are filled with parts of my life from a painful time that I’d prefer not to relive.

But since I’ve been working on a second memoir that delves back into this time period, I could no longer ignore them. So I put on my big girl pants and dragged out these time capsules, my entire body thrumming.

Case #1

I opened the two chrome latches (Ta-twang! Ta-twang!) on the first briefcase. Just like I thought, it held old journals and scraps of writing. Looking over the contents, my hands started acting like damp, floppy washcloths. I repeatedly wiped them on my shirt. My heart was hopping like a crazed rabbit and I wasn’t sure if I was breathing too fast or breathing at all. After about ten minutes, I felt shaky, like I’d run a marathon. Enough. I snapped the briefcase shut. Da-dwang! Da-dwang!

“How,” I wondered, “am I ever going to finish this memoir if I can’t submerge myself in these memories for more than ten minutes at a time?”

I took a two day break, made some blueberry muffins, wrote this tasty post, and then felt strong enough to open the second briefcase.

Case #2

Made of leather, it’s the color of plums. I’d given it to my mother years ago when she was teaching writing to engineers at Western Michigan University. When she quit teaching, she gave it back to me, along with her two other black vinyl briefcases.

“Just open it, Jennifer,” I said aloud as the sleek briefcase stared at me from the dining room table. I watched as my fingers listened and slid open the brass latches. Plick-click. Plick-click.

Confusion, surprise, and something else swept over me. Relief? Joy?

The open mouth of the briefcase had swallowed heaps of sketches and drawings, some yellowed by time. On the roof of it’s mouth, pens, pencils, and markers, tucked into pockets, stood at attention, awaiting orders.

Here are some of the heads:

This was a whole part of me I had locked away with a bunch of other memories. How could I have forgotten that I used to draw and doodle? In fact, for a good year, I even toyed with the idea of becoming a cartoonist.

Here’s one guy who was hanging out in the plum briefcase for decades:

As I sift through my past, the fog is slowly lifting. I’m feeling both excited and scared. I’m trying to look at writing this second memoir as an adventure, but instead of packing for this trip, I’m unpacking.

I plan to share more of my cartoons with you here at Writing Without a Net. I think we’ll have fun.

Meanwhile, I still have one more suitcase to open.