Last Saturday, Cath and I went to New York to celebrate the birthday of one of my cousins, who was turning 60. It was a true New York Italian party, complete with an accordion-led band that played some great Italian Polkas. There was dancing, singing, and of course, eating. I regained contact with several of my cousins who I hadn't seen since 1991.

We drove back late Saturday night so I could catch an 8:25 am flight to Houston Sunday morning. Now New York had been rather balmy, but it was nothing compared to Houston. Houston - where outdoors is like a swamp and indoors is like a refrigerator. Houston - the land of always-on AC. My glasses fogged up as I walked outside the airport. Ah, yes. Houston. H-Town. This used to be 'home' and I needed no further reminder as to why I would never call it that again.

Paul picked me up from the airport. Paul and I have been friends since we were 4 years old. Throughout elementary school and most of junior high, Paul and I would hang out almost every day together. I have two blood-siblings, but if there were another sibling that I could name simply because of the shear amount of time we spent together during childhood, it would be Paul. It was good hanging out with him, but also strange - strange because of how different our lives were from 24 years ago when we read Mad Libs into a tape recorder during late night sleep-overs, or played an intricate game of 'can't touch the ground' after school. (The object of the latter was to go through every part of my house without touching the ground, as the rather unimaginative name implies.) Now here we were, on a plot of land that would soon be where Paul and his wife Erica's first house would stand. We stood on this property, now just a plot of weeds and dirt, and listened to the crickets sing their high-pitched songs through the grass. We remembered days riding our bikes in fields just like this in our neighborhood of Norchester, making jumps out of the dirt, riding until we were exhausted, covered in sweat. We'd cool off in the pool, eat, and go back out for more until there was no daylight left. At that age, we never minded the hot, Houston air constantly pressing down on us like some warm, damp sponge. At that age, we were invincible.

Sunday evening, after a day at the pool, and a Mexican food outing, Paul and Erica drove me back to my mom's house, where my mission of the week was to start: I am to clean out most of my junk and decide what needs to be kept and what needs to be tossed out. The impetus behind this weeding out of old things has to do with my mom's imminent move to Dallas.

Most of the stuff I'm finding is stuff that needs to be kept. It's taking a while to filter through it all, because I'm winding up looking at all the photos and reading all the journals. During third grade, we had to keep a journal in one of my classes and I'm so glad we did because it offers a great glimpse into that year of my life. Some of the entries are simply accounts of what happened that day, others are stories I made up.

Here's the entry from my birthday:

November 24th, 1982

Birthday!

Today was my Birthday! It was fun! I got a new tennis racket and a swetsuit. I played all evening with Paul and he watched me open my presents. When Paul left, my mom and I went out for mexan food my favorit. I have a specil waiter named jose and he was going to come and sing me happy birthday but i was in the restrooms. I was mad! But he brought me a sopapiya and put a candel on it and made it into a birthday sopapiya. Instead of a birthday cake. When we got home I read a book and went to sleep.

Pretty cool. So simple. Is that me?

Other interesting things I found included Star Wars figures, matchbox cars, Garbage Pale Kids, wacky pack stickers, lots of photos, and notes from junior high girlfriends.

This evening, we drove by our old house and my elementary school. I lived in Houston from the age of 4 until 18, so just driving around this area causes a flood of memories, things I haven't thought about in years. It's making me realize that it's probably good to eventually leave the place where you grew up. Otherwise, you'd constantly be confronted with moments from the past, constantly reliving old memories. It's hard enough for me to relive the memories of six months ago, much less 26 years ago.

I guess, in small doses, reflecting on those years is therapeutic. It reminds you of who you used to be, and in a way, reinforces who you have become. Every so often it's good to come face-to-face with your old self and get reacquainted.

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