Taking Time For Nostalgia

Nostalgia is a complicated thing. Sentimentality can be counterproductive and time-consuming. It might seem an odd topic for a style blog, except that my blog has lately become a meditation on grief and loss. Allowing time for grief to infiltrate every aspect of my life is something I once sought to avoid.

My reason for bringing this up at this time is that today I found some writing Bob had done prior to his illness and death. Inside a legal pad which I thought was blank I found a mission statement he had written for what is called a Self Evaluation of Job Performance. Not surprisingly, there was an outline and the final composition.

Something about a working copy of Bob’s Assets, written in his own hand, I found charming. Then sad. But mostly charming. With a sprinkle of guilty conscience. My attitude of this recent discovery reminds me that in the recent past I was not so sentimental about these things. Until now I didn’t really have the luxury of time for fond reflection.

Bob fell ill in August, and 5 months later, I sold our house out of fear. I decided that to take control was better than waiting for the Sheriff to throw me out. My big, beautiful house, chock full of remnants of my life with Bob, sold in 2 days. Now I had roughly a month to pare down to only what could fit into my one bedroom apartment and my one person life. Bob died the day I got the keys to the new place.

Part of being in control rather than being a victim is I set the ground rules. Rule one: keeping  Bob’s unrealized potential future alive while curating his memories would take an additional 70 years or more to accomplish. Bob is gone, his memory resides in those who loved him, and the rest is just stuff. So the stuff went.

I hired 1-800-got-junk to haul away 5 or 6 truckloads of running medals, college papers, teaching supplies, music, and souvenirs. Their business model is “You just point and we haul it away.” Almost too easy. So I pointed, they hauled, and still I just barely got it all done in time.  No time to be concerned about the value of his attachment to all this stuff.

Months later, I’m pretty much settled in my new place and new life. I even had a visitor. My Instagram account is chock full of my new place and my new life. There’s a shrine to Bob in my bookcase, and even his ashes in a box, but I’m not exactly surrounded by his stuff. No space, no time for all that.

So this hand-written self-assessment Bob stashed away in a tablet I found quite by accident; it takes on a special meaning for me now. I have time, pressure’s off, so I can take some time to read his thoughts, written in his own hand, on how he viewed himself. For an employer to ask you what you value about yourself is pretty common, but not an easy assignment. Comparing what Bob offered as what was valuable in himself pales in comparison to his value in my view.

I’m just glad that after all the memories I purged without regard, I have the opportunity now to remember him as fondly as befits his memory. My evaluation? The best ever.