As part of the Great Purge of 2015, three old computers were brought to the surface. Two were laptops that had fried motherboards and one was a desktop that was born in 1998 and never updated.
Basically, they were toast.
I could have tried to revive them. Sell them. Something. But they were old and full of sensitive things like my Social Security number and oh so many memories.
- Countless term papers from college, on topics like Pre-Raphaelites in Literature and Art; The Effect of the Holocaust on Women; and The History of the Anishinaabe in Michigan.
- The story I wrote about rival teenage gangs and car races and plummeting off a cliff. (Too much Rebel Without a Cause as a kid.)
- The story about a man bitten in the woods by a vampire while trying to rescue a damsel in distress. (Before vampires were all the rage!)
- The horrible, depressing poems I wrote about my tragic life. (In retrospect, I was being just a bit dramatic.)
- The just-post-high-school journal entries that I wrote on the computer instead of the paper journal because it was so much faster, about boys, boys and more boys.
Instead of trying to recover those memories, I asked Chris to take the computers apart and destroy the hard drives. I figured he’d enjoy taking a sledgehammer to them. Who doesn’t like to break things?
But rather than pulverize them, he added them to our burn pile, full of mail we couldn’t recycle.
And yesterday, I got this message: