The lost notebook

I spent the last week and a half or so looking for my reporter's notebook. It's a small, black moleskin journal that allows me to quickly take notes when I'm on a story. I couldn't remember if I brought it with me to Virginia or not, but I hadn't seen it in a while.

I was trying to figure out why losing a notebook with notes from past projects distressed me so much when I realized the obvious — it's not losing the bound sheets of paper that hurt, it was the meaning behind the notebook. That notebook was given to me as a gift by Ben — he knew how much I wanted a professional way to present myself when I was working on a story. I've taken notes on stories I've poured my heart into, many of those pages are filled with story ideas and tips on how to improve. That book is a small statement, a little piece of who I am as a journalist.

Sure, I knew I could go buy a replacement notebook and it would function the same. But the cheesy, sentimental being that I am would always think about the pages that didn't get filled. I vowed to leave no stone unturned in the hopes that maybe just maybe it would turn up in a place so obvious, so comical that the fact I ever even worried about it would be laughable in retrospect.

And reader, that's exactly what happened. Underneath some forgotten papers, my little black notebook lived.

Why do we place so much value on objects? For me, it's about the people and memories associated with the objects. I have coffee mugs that I care about more than others, based not on aesthetics but the stories behind them. It's not like the absence of the item would erase or negate those memories — if my Waffle House and IHOP mugs disappeared I wouldn't forget about Ben and my dates there in college. But it's nice to have a little reminder of a dear memory whenever I open the cabinet, or put on a specific t-shirt, or reach for that little black notebook.