Independently Speaking By Brent Olson

Memories

I try not to give people advice because, let’s face it, I do a lot of dumb stuff. My judgement might not be that solid. But there is one thing that I suggest you try.

Going back three or four decades, if an interesting piece of paper crossed my desk during the course of the year, I’d put it in a file.

In March when I finished my taxes, I’d bundle up the forms and all the receipts and stick them in a secure box. Then I’d toss the contents of what I called my History File on top and put the whole thing someplace safe.

Then I’d forget about it.

Lately, I’ve been wandering out to my storage shed, picking a box at random and looking through it.

In part, it’s a desire to tidy things up a little for my descendants.

I think I can risk a bonfire using some of the old papers — I’m not worried about getting audited for my financial dealings in 1983. Even if I was, from what I remember of the ’80s, Uncle Sam could audit all he wanted and not find any income, illicit or otherwise.

Recently, I pulled a box from the pile and the first thing I saw was a photo of my wife when she was the same age as her oldest granddaughter. She was wearing a black minidress, holding a guitar, and singing at her high school baccalaureate event. I remember the dress and the evening, and it was gratifying to see that she was just as cute as I remember. There was a photo of my mom smiling at her grandson, home on leave from the Marine Corps. A little deeper down was a thank you note from one of my editors for a gift we sent her son when he was born. He weighed a little over eight pounds then, but that was 25 years ago and from photos I’ve seen, he’s grown a bit.

In 30 years, I’ve met this editor only once and I’ve never met her son. Yet I think fondly of them and apparently always have.

Toward the bottom of the box, beneath a bazillion receipts for diesel fuel and hog feed, was a stack of papers clipped together. Around the turn of the century, we hosted a foreign exchange student, a young woman from Germany. In reading her application at that time she loved horses and theater. Now she lives on the other side of the world from us and I think she’s still fond of horses and theater, but she’s also become a Minnesota Vikings fan. In hindsight, that was kind of a brutal thing to do to her, but we had good intentions. Besides, suffering heartbreak on a regular basis is a learning experience.

The best part of the application was the letter her mom wrote to us.

It was achingly transparent. She clearly loved her daughter and would have preferred she stayed safe at home, but the kid wanted this opportunity. So like good parents everywhere, despite the expense and the distance, she wanted it for her.

It’s just a pile of boxes in the corner of a beat up shed, the remnants and evidence of a lot of things that don’t mean much to anyone but me. But I’m sure glad they’re there.

Copyright 2025 Brent Olson