I'm sitting on the couch surrounded by memos from FAFSA. They tell me that I'll have to submit my W2 and Tax Returns for review. They might not believe we're really this poor. Welcome to school loans, people.

So, of course, I begin to let my mind wander. It's a much nicer way to spend my time than to deal with this pesky issue. And naturally, since our long trip is still the most present experience in my mind (and because I am one who thinks obsessively about these things) I begin to think again about all of the meaning and nostalgia I extracted during last week's escapades. And if you know me, this nostalgia is certainly one of my strongest attributes. So, this:

We spent a day at Clear Water Lake. This is where my Dad's brother and his family have a beautiful lakehouse. A few years back, the house Dad and his brothers grew up in was in danger of demolition, or at least falling apart. I can't ever get the story right. Regardless, Uncle Rod and Aunt Lois decided to lift the old house from its foundation in Rosholt and move it 45 minutes (west? south?) down the road to the lake. Currently, they've renovated its and kept its integrity - quite an impressive feat - and it's become a wonderful place to sit, to relax, to eat and drink, and remember.

While we were there, the uncles brought nearly a dozen cardboard boxes from storage in who-knows-where so that all the brothers could sort through the contents. These boxes held thousands of clippings from newspapers, special occasion cards, photos, and letters. Every single box with its oddities and hodgepodge was lovingly assembled over the course of a lifetime. That is, Grandma Helen's. These boxes and their mismatched contents are the remainders of her idiosyncratic rat packing. And they are, perhaps, some of the most telling.

The work was set before her children. Dad and his brothers (with the on-again-off-again help of spouses and the like) sorted through these boxes the better part of the day. While we lounged in the chairs and refreshed ourselves, played Polish Horseshoes, and laid in the sun, they diligently (probably over a few beers) sorted. And sorted. And sorted.

A few times I went onto the porch as it became more strewn with newspapers and pictures. It was amazing to see how much care she put behind saving every single article of interest, which ranged from wedding announcements of a classmate to recipes for icebox strawberry pie. As the sun began its descent that early evening, they decided that the work done that day would have to suffice. They'd gone through only half the boxes.

Then there was the bonfire. Uncle Rod and Dad took on the task of burning those pieces deemed useless. For a while, I watched Dad stand alone at the fire, lakeside, against the orange and purple sunset. He reached his hand into the box, taking handfuls of newspapers and throwing them. Staring into the flames.

I walked over to him.

"This is hard, Laura," he told me.

I already knew that. "I know," I said.

"Knowing that these pieces were cut out and saved by your grandma...that she lovingly clipped them..."

I took a side of the box and helped him. We took last glances at the clippings, knowing the fire was unforgiving. I salvaged a recipe for braided sesame bread. He saved a clipping printed in the Rosholt Review from years ago. We do not need these things.

Amid the excitement of the day, the exhaustion from the travel, and the joy to be where we were, Dad and I stood, hands holding one side of the box each, and we threw Grandma's clippings in the fire.