A good day

I was in the mood to do some spring cleaning the other day, so I thought that I would start with cleaning out some old boxes that I had stacked in the basement. At the bottom of the pile sat an old trunk that I’ve had, but not opened, since my days at college. I thought that it was filled with old college books. I was sure that now was most likely a good time to clean it out, and maybe sell that trunk at a future garage sale. I opened it slowly, since the hinges had rusted. A smile grew on my face as my eyes fell upon the musty contents. Buried within some crumbling old college papers was my very first diary. An old friend that I carried around. A secret place for my thoughts and dreams.

It certainly looked as if it had seen better days. Old and well worn from keeping the secrets of an awkward teen, its bright red coloring was faded by time, but still held a bit of luster. As I held it in my hands, a tin lock of brass stood out like a sentinel guarding its post. Its past mission was to keep the prying eyes of my brothers away from the precious contents. The key was long gone, but I took a nail off of my work bench and skillfully picked the tiny lock. It wasn’t too hard, so I am fairly sure that my brothers had done it countless times as well.

I sat myself on another box as I held this magical gift. There is always a bittersweet danger when visiting with the past. Still, what harm could come of sifting through the pages of an old friend? What treasure might I find?

Mesmerized for a moment in the dim basement light, my mind and heart were warmed by the endless array of little things that were so silly, but so important to the shaping of my life.

The best day of my life, it seems, was Christmas Day 1964, when I loved ham and apparently Paul McCarthy, who was destined to be my future husband.

I still like ham but I guess that I must have passed on Paul McCarthy.

I laughed out loud when I think of Paul’s loss, as a petal from an dusty pressed rose tumbles out from the back of the book. I remember this. It’s what is left of my very first rose. The memory comes to me as though it were yesterday. I was standing under the old mulberry tree in my back yard. The leaves were golden with the passing colors of fall.

The boy was just standing there looking awkward with his sandy blond hair. He had just walked me home from cheerleading practice. He was silent. There he stood as he kicked at the ground. He asked if he could kiss me when he was certain that there were no prying eyes around. He did and it was perfect. With shaking hands he passed to me a perfect red rose. And I wrote, “His eyes are as blue as an October sky. It’s a perfect day... and if you are reading this Billy or Michael you will be so cursed.”

— Diane Butler