The Woman Who Can't Forget by Jill Price Page B

Cinderella records and books, as well as a horde of Flintstones memorabilia—anything Flintstones that I could get my hands on back in the 1970s. I’ve kept every record I was ever given or bought—my first 45 was Jim Croce’s “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” I have all the Golden Books my parents gave me, as well as the little white rocking chair that the William Morris Agency gave to my parents the day I was born. Though it may seem an odd memento, I’ve also kept one of my dresser drawers from when I was five; I loved that dresser.
    In 1982 I started to make tapes of songs off the radio that I labeled meticulously by season and year, and I kept that up until 2003. I still have all of those tapes. In late 1988, I started making videos of TV shows, and I have a collection of close to a thousand of them. I also started an entertainment log in August 1989 in which I wrote down the name of every record, tape, CD, video, DVD, and 45 that I own.
    My obsession about keeping things even extended for a while to making some record of everyone who had visited our house. In sixth grade, I decided that I wanted anyone who came over to our house to sign an autograph book I’d been given. For the next couple of years, all those who walked into my house would be asked to sign it.
    My parents have always been understanding about my need to keep things, allowing me to fill my bedroom full of my “collection.” In October 1991 I took over my brother Michael’s room when he moved out, and filled it full too. To anyone but me, my room probably looked like an attic, though it was important to me that everything was kept in a strict order, and my room was never a mess. I arranged my dolls in a specific way on my bed and my bookshelves; even when I put them in the stroller and walked them around the streets of New York, I had to make sure they were in the same order every time.
    Five years ago my parents finally convinced me to move most of my collection into a storage unit when they were moving out of the house I lived in for twenty-seven years in LA. We rented a large storage container, and I was packing all of my things up for weeks, which was horribly stressful and upsetting, though ultimately I think it has been good for me, and I still know exactly where everything is. As I reflect on what my parents have put up with, I am grateful that they were so accommodating of this obsession of mine.
    When it came to moving, my need for rootedness and for holding on to the physical situation of my life was harder for them to accommodate. It didn’t start out that way. When I was five years and three months old, in early 1971, my family moved from Manhattan to South Orange, New Jersey, and reflecting on that move now, considering how traumatic moving became for me later, it’s almost miraculous to me how readily I adjusted.
    My brother was sixteen months old and growing fast, and the New York apartment was getting a bit tight for all four of us. The idea of moving out of the city wasn’t particularly upsetting to me, and I was excited to go with my parents when they took me and my grandmother with them to see a house in South Orange. That house was a beautiful three-story red brick colonial with big windows framed by black shutters, and several large trees in the front yard, with a flagstone walkway leading from the sidewalk to the front door. We had a big entry area and foyer, with a spiral staircase, and a lovely dining room, with a swinging door into the kitchen that was painted an incredibly bright and cheery yellow. We also had a great den, with brown shag carpeting (so ’70s) and a guest room on the first floor where Michael and I watched endless hours of TV.
    I fell in love with the house immediately, especially my bedroom. It was a good-sized square room, with pale yellow walls and plenty of space for all of my furniture and toys. I was especially delighted by a set of built-in shelves where I