Exotic yet ordinary

My mother did a pretty spectacular job of documenting my childhood. My baby book is thick with school assignments, art work, report cards, newspaper clippings, even the x-ray the doctor used to diagnose me with pneumonia. She has seven photo albums packed with pictures of swimming lessons, ball games, dance recitals, birthdays, twirling competitions, trips to the fair, camp fire activities, school programs, holidays, vacations, family gatherings -- if it is something I did growing up, it's in there.

She also collected everything I have ever written. That autobiography I wrote in second grade? Kept it. All the terrible poetry I wrote in high school? It's there, too. Things I thought I had thrown away or lost outright all mysteriously found their way into a folder of collected works.

Several such folders were returned to me earlier today. Apparently, Mom found them last night in her cedar chest and thought I might like to have them. Of course, she wouldn't hand them over until I swore on my daughter's life that I wouldn't throw any of the contents away. And rightly so, the smarty. Had I been able to skim the contents before making such a promise, a large portion of them would have found their way to the nearest trash can. Again.

Happily, it wasn't all bad. I found this painting from my fifth grade art class sandwiched in between some papers.