Don't ever change

Whenever I come home now, I feel like it's an exercise in either archiving or uncovering. Sometimes I'll be struck with the grand idea of blazing a trail through my closet or the boxes under my bed with the intent of cleaning and organizing and throwing away, and on other occasions all I want to do is just flip through old notebooks or photo albums.

This is a digging week; I've already found my sixth and ninth grade yearbooks and spent the past few hours leafing through them. What I find most amusing is the fact that nobody ever writes anything substantial to one another--maybe it's because in each of these books, everyone knows they'll see each other again in a too-short two months--but nine times out of ten the notes from classmates have something to do with the teacher picked on most during the school year. My sixth grade French teacher was referred to as Martian, the Thing from Mars, and You-Know-Who by several different classmates. The worst part is that this teacher signed the same pages serving as her burn book . . . .we were terrible!

I think my favorite entry in the sixth grade yearbook is from a girl named Jenny that I haven't talked to in at least eight years:

Meghan-
Have a great summer hope you have a great time with your grandparents without your sister for a week.
Your friend,
*Jenny*

It all gets summed up pretty succinctly by Amy on the last page:

Queen of Ugabuga. Haha. Now everyone thinks I'm nuts. Oh well, I am.