The Wallet

Hodgin Hall is the oldest building on the campus of the University of New Mexico, having gone into service on September 1st, 1892, and is currently undergoing some much-needed renovation.  In the fall of 1972, I had a class in Hodgin Hall, Geography 471.  Therein is the germ for this story.

The class itself is not important to the story, although it did once almost cost me my then girlfriend.  One day I cut the class, as I was often wont to do in those days of youthful exuberance, but Ms. Jaq, good student that she was did not, and therefore got to watch the movie that was shown that day.  I did not.  A couple of weeks later, on an exam, the essay question dealt specifically with our reactions to a movie I had not seen.  But, not to be deterred, I made up my own version of the movie in my head based on the title  (given in the essay question), and pontificated upon my fictional creation.  And when we got the exam results, I got full credit for the essay, and Ms. Jaq had a few points deducted for whatever subjective reasons the professor chose.  She was understandably pissed, and I was (doubtless) insufferably smug.

But that's not the point of the story.   Fast-forward thirty-eight years, to last week in fact, and I will get to the point, which was the phone call I received from the University of New Mexico.  Seems that during the renovations to Hodgin Hall, a workman found a wallet under a stair that they were disassembling.  He turned it in to the University, and among the random remains were my old student ID,  a schedule of classes, and my Massachusetts driver's license.  From those clues UNM was able to track me down, find my cellphone number, and contact me.

After asking me if I remembered having lost my wallet (I did not), and assuring me that the wallet contained no cash (probably never did, those days being the early part of my suffering for art period), they took my address, and promised to send me my wallet.

Which they did.  I received it in the mail on Monday, and it contained:
        
          - aforementioned Driver's License, Schedule and Student ID

          - Social Security Card (original, issued in 1965)
          - Selective Service Registration Certificate (the draft, Viet Nam, et al)
          - Selective Service Classification (1-A, yoiks, that's cannon fodder baby)

          - picture of my kid sister Kathleen
          - picture of my previous girlfriend, and her Athletic ID Card
          - scrap from a faux short story about Tom and previous girlfriend
          - miscellaneous business cards, and memberships
          - receipt for a repair to my Empire turntable
          - receipt for a pair of hiking boots
          - telephone numbers, with word game entries scribbled on the back

And all that detritus serves is to bring back memories of times that are now relegated to history books.  The Viet Nam War (student bayonetted during protest on UNM campus the previous summer).  George McGovern (about to get his clock cleaned by Dick Nixon, winning only Massachusetts and the District of Columbia).  Watergate (two years to resignation).  Cambodia.  Earth Day.  The Civil Rights Movement.  The Women's Movement.  Viva la Raza.  Ceasar Chavez.  The Godfather.  The American Poetry Review.  All of those disparate things that somehow came together as a life.  Infinite quantum decisions that once made could never have been any other way.  Decisions that define who I became.  

And who I did not.

But what is most striking, really, is how mundane the contents of my wallet could be, even after all these years. No cash, no credit cards (of course nobody had them in those days), no ATM card.  The photos are a hoot, a jarring reminder of how young I once was and am now not.  But most of the rest of it could have remained under a staircase in Hodgin Hall for another thirty-eight years without being missed.

Just an old wallet, once lost, now found.