Flashback: Places, please!

1992.

A year out of college and barely a year married, I decided to dive back into the theater world while my husband holed himself up to study a year of Greek through a 6 week course affectionately known as "Suicide Greek" by all the Seminarians who had gone before him.

"Hello Dolly" was my escape from the boring evenings at home sitting alone while George was locked in his closet of an office.

Fast forward to 2011.

How interesting is it that one of the characters in Dolly was looking for a "life outside of Yonkers?" For here I am 19 years later about to get "Lost in Yonkers".

Last night, George and I entered a room full of strangers.

Thankfully, I quickly found the owner's of my joint, and then the artistic director of the Bobcat Players. I was then reintroduced to the woman who read the mother (and was cast in the role) to my Bella during my "Lost in Yonkers" audition back in January. We sat getting to know each other for the majority the evening as I stole glances at others around the room who very well could have been the same folks from my Highland Park Theater days.

The gathering had a familiar feel not unlike the ones we enjoyed so many years earlier when we'd land at Bennigans after my rehearsals every Thursday evening. Even George would take a break from crackin' the books to join me and the cast for some after-rehearsal dining. Simply put, those evenings were just downright fun - a ton of laughing - with incredibly wonderful people. I will ALWAYS carry a fondness about those days.

Last evening, in the course of 2 hours, George must have commented at least three times how this Happy Hour felt like those "old days" and how much he was enjoying watching me rediscover this enormous part of myself that had been purposely placed on a shelf for a number of years. Purposely placed. Not begrudgingly placed. There's a difference.

When one moves, special items are carefully packed away. While in the process of unpacking, it is not uncommon to leave several boxes untouched. For months. Upon reopening them, the special item takes on an entirely new quality - the rediscovery of that dear object serves to increase it's beauty.

At times, the course of one's life makes it's necessary to pack up something precious and set it aside. Not in the "giveaway" or "trash" pile. But rather, the "later" pile.

I unpacked my acting bug last night.

And the second perk of the evening?

Meeting a woman who had moved to Beaver from CHICAGO only 6 months ago. Through her struggle to adapt to this new environment, she discovered a few articles I'd written in The Bridge under the title "New Girl in Town".

"Thanks for writing those. They really helped. I figured if you could get used to being here, I could, also. I found them comforting."

Stories drive relationships, don't they?

Stories on stage.

Stories off stage.

Life is one big story and you're cast in it.

Places!

And Through Door Number Two?

As I continue the process of unpacking bit by bit everyday, I realize that I've not shared that my attic office has a twin.

Attic #2.

Or. The catch-all space.

Our home was built in 1909, so we have closets from, well, 1909. They are not large. They are the complete opposite of a walk-in. One closet, in our guest room, is not even deep enough for one to hang shirts. It was 1909 - a time of wardrobes and huge dressers.

We have no dressers.

We do have Ikea wardrobes. We're soooo 1900's. In a Swedish kind of way.

Due to storage limitations in our closets we have chosen to keep our wardrobe boxes from the move to house all our winter clothing in Attic #2. We'll upgrade from corrugated cardboard hanging boxes to sturdier hanging wardrobes at some point, in order to provide better protection for our clothing, but for the time being this arrangement will work.

Attic #2 is also the lucky home for banker boxes filled with files, art boxes containing years of Harper and Zane's work, boxes filled with stuff from my theater days, boxes from college, luggage, what we like to call "keep for memory" boxes, etc.

We also have a coal storage room in the basement, which we aren't using for coal. That room also has stuff. Lots of stuff.

Stuff we don't need on a daily basis. And perhaps will never need. Stuff that just stresses me out.

Makes me wonder if I would have noticed had these items gotten damaged or lost during the move. It's funny to see what I've chosen to keep on the main living areas of the house and what items haven't made the cut and thus remain in boxes in their new home in Attic #2 and the basement. It's that stuff in particular that is driving me crazy.

It's incredible how stressful our "stuff" can be. We've always been purgers. If we haven't used it or needed it during the year, we give it away. I filled an entire box of clothes this week alone to take to our local thrift store - and that's AFTER filling a few bags and boxes before we even left Evanston.

I can't wait to get my hands on Attic #2, organizing it into sections for each member of the family, purging items that are just completely unnecessary and creating a space to hold items that rotate in and out throughout the year.

Of course I need to wait on this project until I, Mom, am completely unpacked, which I'm not. I also have a home office set up, a laundry room to rearrange, and the family room/toy area to get up and running.

Then, and only then, will I tackle door number two.

I hate knowing that it's there. Untidy. In disarray. So right now I choose to close the door and ignore its presence. Give it a good dose of denial.

Hmm. I think I just stumbled opon a metaphor which carries weighty spiritual significance. Care to comment on that?