That old white foot locker.

3:24 pm -
I am not sure why I decided to go rooting through "The Trunk". The point is that I did.
A rather beat-up looking white foot locker sits on the floor of my closet in the left rear corner. I've had this trunk for at least sixteen years, and prior to then, the contents--which have increased over time--were schlepped around in some manner of cardboard container.

Just what is in that trunk?

Stuff.

You know, things which possess no practical purpose in the physical world, but I keep them nevertheless.

The total monetary value of this mass of papers and nick-nacks and whatnot is worth approximately 49 cents, if that. Maybe it's worth more, and maybe less. But to me, it's priceless.

Examples of some of the inventory residing within that big ole box:

--Greeting cards spanning thirty years: There's the Siamese Kitty Card I received when I was just a toddler, as well as cards for my children
--Yearbooks from junior high school
--A partial skein of yarn once attached to a baby blanket I never finished. I started it when I was expecting Sean.
--Needlepoint projects I never finished, either
--Sketches drawn by both of my kids, and some that I drew as well
--A coin proof set from the year of my birth, sealed in lucite
--photographs from my wedding
--My son's third grade, navy blue cub scout shirt, adorned with sundry patches and pins; along with it dwells the powder blue neckerchief with dark blue print;
--my son's fourth grade Webelos scout shirt--a big step up: that year he graduated to khaki with yet more patches pins and badges, and the blue neckerchief moved up to a more sophisticated red tartan plaid
Those shirts would look like doll clothes when compared to my adult son's 6 foot, 180 lb frame.
--A long, thick lock of hair which is my son's and daughter's combined.
--one blue baby bootie with no mate
--one pink baby bootie, also mateless
--Notes exchanged with girl chums during class when we were supposed to be studying
--Report cards: the kids' as well as my own; some were good and some were not so good
--Letters written by my then-fiance...letters which traveled nine thousand miles to reach my hands, all for the modest price of a postage stamp, which was 22 cents at the time
--Journals dating back to when I was thirteen years old

Really, now: how does one put a price on such a motley collection?

And why do we value such sentimental stuff?

Perhaps the word "sentimental", that which evokes emotion, is the answer. The older we get, the more memories and appointments and various account numbers are jammed into our heads. The "old days" are relegated to the dusty convolutions, seldom visited--unless we are reminded of them. Sure, songs and aromas can summon memories, but there's nothing quite like holding an object in the hand--a tangible piece of the past.

My logical, practical side warns me to avoid inhaling deeply. There's no telling what sort of mites or beastly beasties might be scuttling around in the dust.
The emotional side wants to breathe in the scent of oldness--even if it is somewhat disconcerting to realize that events that were once fresh, experienced by a self that was once young, now smell like a second-hand store from the 1920s.

It's poignant, bittersweet, visiting those times and recalling those feelings. Little things--usually involving romance--that once caused me to mope around or cry, now seem silly. I'm almost embarrassed by the self I used to be. She sure did fret over some stuff that strikes me as trivial today.

Motherhood was the turning point. It becomes clear as I forage through mementos collected during the 1980s and 1990s, that my children became the predominant force that governed my life. This was something that would never change.

Why then, have the little objects destined to join the ranks of Sentimental Stuff dwindled to practically nil?

I think I might know.

One, since many documents and most photographs have gone digital, they are now stored...neatly nestled on our computer hard drives.

Somehow, a trunk full of hard drives just isn't the same thing.

The other thing that could be taking place is that my children--now adults with homes, lives and loves of their own--have diverted that nostalgic traffic to beat-up "white trunks" of their own.

At least I hope so.