Blast From the Past

Every kid knows it, and every kid hates it.

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The moment my parents would ask me to clean my room, I’d immediately fill with dread. I thought of every possible way to put it off as a kid. But now, as an adult, I have a newfound appreciation for the task.

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What may seem like the chore of nightmares proved to be a blast from the past, filled with memories, nostalgia and longing for what once was.

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Over winter break, I decided it was time to complete the once-dreaded task. My room back home had been messy since summer, and it kept getting worse and worse.

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It started with moving out after my first year — everything from my dorm room ended up on my bedroom floor, and it kept piling up. Eventually, it was hard to see the carpet underneath. I never got the chance to clean it because I immediately started working that summer, and the cycle kept repeating itself.

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While I have cleaned my floor a few times since then, I must confess: It had been years since I actually went through every drawer, shelf and bin in my room. Between that and the mess on my carpet from moving back in, I couldn’t stand being in my room. Messes give me anxiety, and I was living in it.

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I set a goal for myself and decided it was time to organize my room. Not just my regular pick-up clean, either. I needed to go through every drawer and crevice and clean until it was perfect.

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As you may imagine, the task proved to be incredibly time-consuming. I spent countless hours emptying bins and boxes, wanting to organize everything from scratch. This ended up being the hardest part because after hours of work, it looked like zero progress had been made. Actually, it sometimes appeared worse.

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Cleaning your room can suck. It’s tiring, it takes forever and, at the end of the day, it’s not fun. I always find things I would rather spend my time doing than picking clothes and boxes off my floor. I could watch a new movie, listen to music, visit with friends and family or pick up an extra shift at work. Why would I waste my time picking up a messy room?

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But it needs to be done. And sometimes, it’s exactly what you need.

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Believe it or not, going through years and years of items brings back memories. You never know what you tossed in a bin however many years ago, or whose birthday cards are stashed away in your dresser.

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This was more than true for me. Clothes, bags, stuffed animals, books and anything else you can imagine flooded the carpet. I had bins and drawers that used to serve a specific purpose but now were filled with random stuff.

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The first thing I found was a TY brand stuffed animal. Actually, a whole basket of them. As a kid, my grandma, who passed when I was 3, gifted me these at any opportunity she got. They had been sitting in the back of my closet for years, and digging them up brought back countless memories with my grandma and these Beanie Baby plushies.

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My favorite one was a baboon. I fittingly named him Baby Baboon, and I was obsessed. He had to be by my side at all times or all hell would break loose.

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At one point, I lost him, and it was unbelievably devastating. Determined to find him, I started a search party for the tiny, stuffed baboon. I scoured the house, calling, “Baby Baboon, Baby Baboon, where are you? Are you hiding?” I thought maybe, just maybe, if he heard my voice, he’d come running back to me. Makes sense, right?

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Unfortunately, to my shock, he didn’t come running into my arms. Maybe he was truly gone. I was terrified.

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My parents, on the other hand, had their own idea. Baby Baboon was nowhere to be found, and I was inconsolable without him. So my mom and dad had the brilliant idea to buy another stuffed baboon — the exact one I had grown so fond of.

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I couldn’t tell the difference. A while later, we found the original. The one and only Baby Baboon was safe and home, but now there were two.

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During my deep clean, I came across not just one Baby Baboon, but both. I mentioned it to my mom, who got a kick out of it because of how ridiculous the whole situation was. It had me reminiscing on that era of my life and how, at that time, losing a stuffed animal felt like life or death. To this day, I still own two stuffed baboons.

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I also found my stuffed lemur, fittingly named Lemur. As you can tell, I was very creative when it came to naming my toys. Lemur also frequented my side — I rarely went anywhere without her.

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Lemur first came into my life when I was a kid. I purchased her from the gift shop at the indoor waterpark, Kalahari. When I was younger, going to Kalahari was an annual Christmas tradition. It was a blast — spending time with my family and riding waterslides (or, in my case, mostly swimming in the kids’ pool) was a highlight of my year. My cousins also purchased lemurs of their own on the trip, and seeing Lemur again reminded me of how much I loved my family.

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When I came across the stuffed animal in the back of my closet, I found myself reminiscing once again. I longed for an easier life, where my biggest concern was making sure I knew where my favorite plushies were. At the end of the day, it was simpler. I didn’t have the same worries and responsibilities I do today. Life was easy, fun and carefree.

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Instead, my current concern was cleaning my room. I wasn’t playing with my toys all the time, and Lemur and Baby Baboon were no longer my primary responsibility. I had to deal with work, school and everything that fell between. No one tells you how fast time flies. In the blink of an eye, the world as you know it could cease to exist, and everything is completely different. It’s a weird adjustment, and I’m not sure anyone ever gets used to change.

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Old plushies weren’t the only thing I came across, though. In my box of books, I came across a small, empty, never-been-used notebook. It was cute, too. The cover was full of flowers, and the notebook said, “dream big, bright, beautiful dreams.” Inside was a note from my other grandma:

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“Stella, to keep all of your wonderful stories forever.” Even stranger, it was dated Dec. 24, 2014, almost exactly 10 years from the day I found it while cleaning.

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I immediately called my grandma. It was so strange — how did she know, 10 years ago, that I would end up being a writer? It was full circle. She got me a notebook to write my stories in before I even wrote stories. At least, not to the extent that I do now. I now keep this notebook on my bedside table at all times.

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I found another journal, too, signed by my elementary school best friend. We were inseparable — in the third-grade awards, we both won “most creative.” We were always a pair, and everyone knew us as one.

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Inside the notebook was a message similar to my grandma’s, only it was clearly written by a third grader.

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“Happy birthday!” The message read. “Fill this with all of your soon-to-be-famous stortys. From, Ashley aka your B.F.F.”

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“Stortys.” Every time I look at this notebook, I burst out laughing. Ashley, who is now in college studying English, wrote “stortys” in my notebook. I immediately sent her a photo of it, and she made a funny comment about how supportive she was.

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I also discovered countless birthday and holiday cards. A bunch were in my grandma's beautiful, hardly legible cursive handwriting, filled with sweet messages from holidays occurring during my 19 years of life.

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I found cards from my parents, my brother, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my grandparents and my friends. Some friends I still talk to each and every day, and others I haven’t spoken to in years. When they were written, I thought I would be friends with these people for the rest of my life.

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In middle school, my best friend and I were inseparable. We spent every minute of every day we possibly could together. She would spend weekends at my house, go on vacations with my family and sat with me in pretty much every class.

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I came across a birthday card from her from when we were in middle school. It was entirely handwritten, with her words filling both pages. There wasn’t any space left when she finished. The note consisted of inside jokes, kind words and remarks about how we would be best friends forever.

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Once we got to high school, we started drifting apart. Nothing happened between us, but as the years went on, we started speaking less and less until, eventually, we didn’t talk at all.

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Since then, we’ve tried reconnecting a few times, but it was never right. It was never the same as it was. I have always had a hard time coming to terms with that — how could we have gone from spending the majority of our lives together to not talking at all?

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In addition to the countless cards, I also found doll clothes sewn by my next-door neighbor, who has since passed. I found the party hat from my first birthday party. I found a collectible Barbie doll that was gifted to me by my grandma, the same one who gave me the journal. I even found my old sketchbook from my unsuccessful drawing phase in middle school — I really thought, for about a week, that I was destined to be an artist and had found my calling. Thankfully, it didn’t last.

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There were some recent items, too. Sure, they’re not quite as sentimental, but they reminded me of different aspects of my life nonetheless. I found name tags from old jobs, awards and certificates from high school, old costumes from various plays I had done and more.

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One of my favorite things I came across was a birthday gift from a friend of mine. I’m a record collector, and pretty much everyone who knows me knows how much I care about my vinyl collection. For my birthday, my friend made a mini record player out of construction paper. She printed off photos of us together, attached them to the paper and cut a hole in the middle, making little records to use with the player. She even added a needle. It was so special.

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What I anticipated would be an unbearable, waste-of-time experience ended up leading me to come across a variety of old memories. It reminded me of who I was and who I am, and it gave me a glimpse of the beauty of life. Sure, things change, and it's hard. Nothing will ever be how it was, and sometimes, that can sting a bit.

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I always dreaded cleaning my room and would put it off until the absolute last possible minute, which proved to be true in this case, too. But it ended up being so unbelievably worth it and a much-needed walk down memory lane.

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As I stood in my room after cleaning it, it felt like the end of an era. Looking around, everything was empty. The memories that once spilled across my floor were now tucked away in boxes. Sure, it was empty, but those memories were still there for me to look back on whenever I wished. I just had to look on purpose now instead of stumbling upon them by mistake.

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The empty bedroom also meant there was room to make new memories, and I can’t wait to look back in a few years and reflect on those, too.

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