My dad nicknamed me "Georges-aux-Cossins"

 

Ski passes from over 40 years ago. Cahiers Canada, or notebooks from elementary school (I called them "cahiers hibou" but the brand was in fact "Hilroy") all the way through medical school. Post-it notes written by my then teenage sister who was thankful for me in this existence that totally "sucked". Boarding passes pre-App era. An old two-dollar bill. My first pair of glasses. And a few subsequent ones. Receipts that are so old the ink has disappeared. A Sears card. Cryptic notes on a used envelope. 

These are a few of my obsessively kept things... Ever since I was a child, I have been collecting odd items that have been so unappealing to most people: from rocks, to a net bag containing onions (which I turned into a hammock for my Barbie dolls), to a box of pablum I turned into some kind of camera with view on a random woman's face taken from a newspaper.

As a result, my dad nicknamed me "Georges-aux-cossins" ("cossins" is Québécois for junk, or nicknacks) after his father.

My paternal grandfather had the most amazing basement. I cannot describe the magic that filled me whenever I entered his sacred workshop, where every form of repair was possible.

For my recent birthday, this is the theme my family, who knows me so well, decided to develop. When I arrived at my dad's that evening in late December, I was greeted by a crew wearing an old ID I wore at some point: as a McDonald's employee, a physical therapy student, a Red Cross volunteer, or a resident in a hospital in Montreal. My mom had a macaron or pin with my picture from 5th grade. Oh my goddess !

My nephew Nelson Giroux and me. My dad, Martial, in the background.

Then, I was walked into my dad's office to be presented with the display of many delightful findings in my drawers at my mother's and that my sister has been teasing me about for years now, starting with my hospital wristband as a newborn.

My sister Isabelle, my niece Laurence, my nephew Nelson and me, the pleasantly surprised "Georges-aux-Cossins"

There was also an old manuscript for a novel I naively proceeded to write in my twenties. An eraser from the collection I still have. A box of stationery ("papier à lettres") also from a collection I still have. A present hidden under a snowman wrapping for so long I couldn't even tell you what was in it (I invited my niece Laurence to unwrap it since she had been intrigued forever... it was a booklet of postcards by Gustav Klimt). And a school ID card that belonged to Eric Frigon. Eric Frigon ! He was cute classmate, sure, but I never even dated him ! Why did I end up with his card ? Maybe he had wanted to throw it away, and I rescued it, thinking it was such a waste ?

Here I was today, in my garage, overtaken by some sudden motivation that made all my procrastination tendencies melt away, going through paper bag after paper bag for hours (I had moved more than a dozen of them at least twice, they had been dropped off at my first rental home by my ex shortly after our separation, so over 2.5 years ago, and I was finally gathering my courage to go through them). 

And I can tell you I have not changed. This time, I have not only my own junk but also my three sons'. And sentimental as I am, it is even harder to let go of all these reminders of a former life... My boys are so big now, I am currently wearing Youri's t-shirt... I threw away a cracked fireman helmet (but thankfully found another intact one). I wasn't sure what to do with the Goretex North Face jacket I had for the past 25 years and that kept me warm and dry for so many trips around the world with my ex (can you believe that ? It crossed my mind to throw it away from the spot... but I decided against it. It would have been impulsive, irrational. Maybe I can use it someday).

I failed the Marie Kondo method years ago. Purging my stuff is always brutal. A torture. What I need to do now to shift my approach is to avoid gathering new "cossins". And eventually, the things I still have will obey the laws of impermanence by either leaving my hands, my home, my life, or this world.

For the time being, I feel thankful for the things I am discovering (like art supplies) and will be able to put to good use. I am fully embracing my grand-papa's legacy and even use some of his tools. And maybe folks like Eric Frigon who are nostalgic of the past will also be thankful for me, the memory-keeper. If you see him, would you please put him in contact with me so that he can reclaim his ID anytime ?