Oh, I did not want to open those bins. I figured it was just a bunch of junk my poor little junior high heart thought was too valuable to part with so long ago (that leather bracelet from Girls Camp or the collection of school dance photos I traded with friends). There was, actually, a lot of that. I'm not going to lie and say I didn't head to the D.I. Donation Center pronto.
But there were a few treasures, too. Those bins were like an unintentional time capsule, a collection of random bits of the wacky childhood of a silly romantic motivated country girl.
There were the expecteds: school photos, newspaper clippings, a prescription from my pediatrician on my first day of life.
There are some nearly unexplainable things, too. Like an unopened birthday card from my best friend with a 10 year-old Old Navy gift card inside (still valid, I checked). And a few of these old gals (below). Once worn with distinction. Now they're very appropriately in Sophie's dress-up box. Lucky girl... didn't even have to do pivot-turns in sequins on stage to earn them. Kids these days have it so easy.
And then, in a random twist, the registration papers for one of my favorite dairy goats. I know, I'm weird. Michael told me so when he saw this. "They make good pets, y'know," I told him all defensively. "They eat your weeds and stuff." He rolled his eyes. I loved my goats. Yes, I milked them every day. No, I didn't drink it. Too close to home, I guess.
Then, the ultimate score for my lovely assistant:
That time capsule brought back a lot of memories of who I once was... a goat milker, a beauty queen. I learned to drive on our long gravel driveway. I sold a pig at the County Fair (and competitively showed my horses and won a blue ribbon for my mint brownies and sang the national anthem). I was the Cheer Captain that drove a big old 4x4 (I wondered why the boys liked to park next to me on uniform day). Whatevs. I should write a book. In fact, maybe I will.