The Old Backpack

Some people are hoarders; their homes are just aisles of “stuff.” My mother was the opposite; she was Marie Kondo on steroids. As a result, I only possess two small items from my youth: my guitar, Charlie, and a miniature sculpting I did in school. Honestly, it was fortunate for my mother that she did not yield to temptation and get rid of the guitar. But everything else I had stored at my parent’s home was gone. She did not think that I really wanted any of that old stuff and didn’t offer any emotional compensation for the lost goods or memories.

Among the things stored was my old backpack. Yeah, it was worn and ragged from thousands of miles of hitchhiking, but in all senses, it was operational, right down to the secret pocket sewn in with a couple of hundred dollars stashed for the ultimate emergency.

There was more, too. It had character. The repaired slash on the side where the druggie with a machete decided one night to show us his sword moves? Afterward, he wasn’t showing anyone any moves for a while. He was in the Mass General Hospital in traction. And my friend Judy stitched up the cut with embroidery. It was distinctive.

Stains? You bet. My buddy’s girlfriend was into making strange herbal prescriptions. She used dark rum as a carrier, and one bottle spilled on a road trip out of Baltimore. Both pack and contents reeked for a month, and the stain was always dark and faintly fragrant.

When I went to collect my old stuff, Mom was totally unrepentant, and my father avoided getting involved—the house was her domain, and he knew better than to stick his nose into how she ran it.

For my next trip, I bought a new pack. After a few months, it was barely broken in and still had no stories attached to it. There was not even an echo of the old times and adventures.

Last night, after the house went quiet, I walked around the rooms downstairs. I was in one of those moods. Some old memories boiled up, and I turned to Charlie hanging on the wall and mentioned how we had all pooled waterproof items to wrap Charlie in on a particularly wet and cold trip. The guitar guaranteed some cash when we got where we were going- I could always busk a couple of bucks on the corner or in a bar. So we took care of our meal ticket.

The old pack had been on my back that trip, too, full of sodden clothes, a nickel bag of delicious shit, and a half-eaten pepperoni.

Mom lived to nearly one hundred and never changed. My sister and I removed the last family documents and photos from the house when she decided they cluttered up the house.

As you might guess, I have issues throwing stuff out.