Memory Lane

I have lived in Littleton, on and off, for eighteen years now. In the tradition of pack-rat-acy, I have kept everything. You scoff, but let me prove it to you.
The impetus for this trip down memory lane is that my mother is kicking me out. She’s doing so in the nicest of possible ways, asking me to please get rid of all the crap I’ve amassed in 18 years. I objected for a moment, knowing that I held no other earthly residence that could contain this massive amount of memorabilia, hats, and thrift store t-shirts. But her reasons for my vacating the premises are honorable in that she would like to board medical students in their temporary residencies at nearby hospitals, to fill the house during the winter months so that the cold stays outside while she’s in a big house alone with the dog who can’t hear anything.
I’ve added snapshots; and I will explain them as we get closer to them. Here, at random, are some things I’ve kept over the years:
1. Notes to Mr. Thomas’ Inorganic Chemistry class. I have all the notes, and all the 66% tests to go right along with them. Did I throw them out this time around? Hell no!
2. Newspaper clippings from when USA Today did an interview with Jennifer Aniston. Yes, I was one of several million teenage boys who wanted to grow up as fast as possible and catch Rachel Green on the way out of her coffee shop. Oddly enough, this date in history (1995) marks my beginning to drink coffee.
3. Every single senior picture, school picture, snapshot taken between the ages of 12-17. This is a nine-inch stack of photos and includes: Lara Lemiuex, our French exchange student, Clement, Heather Miller, Mrs. Terrien, Mr. Oliver, Meghan Satrom, little league baseball, drinking beer in Paris. . . etc. etc. (For those who know some of these people, it will be fun, for those who don’t, sorry about that.)
4. Speeding tickets, public indecency tickets, community service vouchers/
5. Taco Bell game pieces from Batman Three.
6. Handwritten letters from Westminster during the sixth grade.
It could go on.
Instead, take a look.
The Old West comes to Estes Park in the summer of 8th Grade.
I look 10 years young (actually 14), and am standing on a footstool so that I appear almost as tall as Josh who is just sitting on a regular chair. Molly and Jess look on with that air of western nobility that private school kids cultivate between religion classes and making out under the gymnasium stairs.





Next is a photo project from Sophomore year, age 16, circa 1996. . .
Notice please the multi-pattern flanel shirt that is decoratively tied around my waist. I think it complements the mirrored shades, feathered hair and acne better than any other garment. Also, this far-off gaze I’m involved in is likely towards Mary Rasure, with whom I was obsessed and to whom I was: "Mat Who?"
(*Mary Rasure, if you’re reading this, I say obsessed because it carries the weight of the crush without intending any actual shrine construction, parking lot surveillance, or phone dialing and hanging up. That was someone else. By the way, how are you? I haven’t talked to in SO long. . .*)