Memories are Made of This

Our parent’s generation had their Brownie cameras, thin airmail letters, and sketchy oral history sessions to collect a lifetime of memories. They had little else to encapsulate their era, decades of living and snippets of generational history. My, how times have changed.

A while back, I was able to escape Minnesota for a week in Palm Springs. It was a respite from the craziness that had become my life over the last six months.  A retreat to the desert was meant to being clarity to my brain and recharge my batteries for the continuing challenges ahead for me as a caregiver back home.

Not surprisingly, my long list of have-to-do projects was pretty quickly set aside for quiet times on the back patio and time to reflect. I made a point to playing catch-up with our neighbors and little touch-up tasks around the house. Most importantly, I made a point of seeing several close friends, one of which was Howard. 

Howard is a wonderful man at ninety-three who has had a good life. We were lunching at the Senior Care Facility where he now lives. Bob, his partner and husband of 54 years, had passed away this fall and Howard was struggling with his new reality of living alone again.

One particular statement he made touched a nerve with me. “All I have left now,” he said “are my memories. I lived the first fifty years in a straight world and then the next forty-four years with Bob.” A smile slowly escaped from his face and it was all good. Despite being almost totally blind now, living in an assisted-living facility, Howard still had his memories to keep him alive. He is keeping busy, reading through an instrument from the Braile Institute and making new friends and, most importantly, cherishing those memories of ninety-three good years well lived.

It was only in her later years that my mother was able to recollect and relish (to some small degree) her life growing up on the farm, the early years working in the Twin Cities as a domestic, then raising two children on her own and finally meeting her second husband and another thirty good years spent with him. Unfortunately, collecting memories weren’t paramount on her mind back then.

Handwritten notes (really scribbles) of her life are now the only tangible thing along with some photographs that she left behind. Her later-in-years recollection of past events were often clouded by old age, memory loss and fractured truths that often didn’t pass the test of reality.

Howard’s comments about holding on to memories brought up an interesting realization. While my parent’s generation wasn’t very big on picture-taking or memoir-writing, my own generation was and is. With the advent of the iPhone, everyone can now be a photographer and able to capture any of life’s moments in an instant.

With Cloud storage and digital capabilities, the total amount collected is almost limitless. The same can be said for data, documents, videos, and any other form of digital-capture. More memories can be captured, created and stored in one day than our forefathers could muster up in a lifetime.

When both my kids did their semester abroad sessions while in college, I was able to capture their experiences on video (now digitized). It’s a visual benchmark upon which their kids can compare their own future explorations abroad. We captured the same precious moments when Sharon’s parents were interviewed about their early years growing up in Nebraska and then Minnesota.

Over the years, I written more than 700 blogs. Each is my own version of a memoir, covering various aspects of my life, interests, failures, success, places I’ve been and dreams I’ve captured. Writing my own obituary and that of Sharon is simply another way, she and I can capture (in our own words) a lifetime of living. For us, memories are made of that.

Loneliness of the Long Distance Writer

There was a great English film that came out in the early Sixties entitled ‘The loneliness of the long-distance runner.’ It was based on a series of short stories by Alan Stilltoe. Essentially it was the story of a poor Nottingham, England teenager from a working-class neighborhood who had bleak prospects in life and few interests beyond petty crime. He turned to long distance running as an antidote as well as an emotional and physical escape from his situation.

I can relate to that as an ex-runner and present-day plodder of the vernacular kind. For many of us, writing is a long-distance journey with no foreseeable finish line in sight. If you want to call yourself a writer and not just someone with a nice hobby then it’s something you must do. Emphasis on the words ‘must do.’

Many successful writers will tell you that only after four or five books, perhaps 500,000 words put down, can you truly consider yourself a real writer. C.J. Lyon says you must follow the ABCs if you want to succeed. ABC – Apply Butt to Chair. In other words, you write and write and then you write some more. Her formula is quite simple. First, write the best book you possibly can. Then you try to find an audience for your work. Finally, you repeat the process all over again. Then perhaps, maybe, with luck and the proper alignment of the stars you just might, ‘just might’ become successful.

I learned a lot from my fellow writers in the Palm Springs Writers Guild especially the women. Many of them have chosen this new profession as their protecting companion, their soul-mate and fellow journey master into the sometimes confusing, trying, stressful but ultimately soul-satisfying world of writing.

Once committed to the journey, writing for us becomes an addiction and obsession like other times in life when you know you’ve entered a whole new phase in your life and you can’t go back to what used to be. You can’t change the past. You simply pick up where you are today. For some of us writing becomes that path not taken. For others it was a life not lived. Now it has become more than just a pen to paper exercise.

So why do people become writers and what are they trying to prove?

For many it’s a high wire mental act that constantly struggles to balance art with reality and story-telling with self-exposure. For many, it is fraught with disappointment, sadness, failure, rejection and the fast-fading possibility of success and satisfaction. We’re all after that book with the long tail; something that resonates with our readers and keeps them coming back for more.

My first toes-in-the-water writing ventures came after my discharge from the service and sojourn to the wilds of hippie heaven on the West Bank of the University. Savran books was my go-to spot for beat poetry, outrageous material from the likes of Allen Ginsberg, and a plethora of mind-expanding journals. It gave birth to my outpouring of poetry and song lyrics that finally saw the light of day some forty years later.

So, why do we keep writing? I’m not sure. It’s certainly not for self-pleasure like…Rocky Road Ice Cream or a long run in the woods. It’s not about the money…there usually isn’t any? I assume for some it is ego-driven. For others, it answers a long-held belief in their story-telling abilities.

For me it was something I’ve always had to do and damn the results. Plain and simple, it’s become a marathon. In every instance, I want to create a mind-picture, an image, a scene or a dream that my readers can enter into. I want to journey with them as together we explore these fictional worlds I’ve created in my mind.

Recently, health issues affecting my wife have curtailed much of my writing for a long period of time. It has certainly magnified the extent to which I’d become addicted to the form, function, creative process and imaginative mind ventures that writing has become to me. So, while others grouse about growing old with their aches and pains, I tend to focus on my fictional characters needs and wants and how I can best tell their life stories.

It is, for all intent and purposes in mind and matter, a long-distance run…with no end in sight.

It’s become something my fellow writers and I have to do. And most of us are crazy enough to believe it just might make a difference in your lives…if it hasn’t already. A long journey with no end in sight and little pleasures along the way.

Cote d'Azus

Winter, 1967, Danmark. It was supposed to be my grand adventure. Living abroad as a rambling vagabond (whatever that was supposed to mean?). Not some hostel-hugging student traveler but a resident somewhere, living as a local and understanding their culture, their history and hope-fully making some friends along the way. Didn’t quite turn out that way.

After six months of all work, little play, no friends and lonesome weekends, the kicker was a layer of snow outside my basement apartment. When I complained at work, they showed me a map with longitude and latitude lines on it. Who knew it snowed in Danmark just like in Minnesota?

That was it, enough was enough, I was heading for the South of France and the legendary bathing beauties there. It took me three days of bone-chilling hitch-hiking to make it to the outskirts of Paris. I never got any further than that. My worn-out thumb and city buses got me to the TWA offices downtown and a ticket home.

Fast forward some fifty plus years and I was sailing lazily down the Saone and then the Rhone Rivers. Two weeks on our way to that infamous Pearl of the Mediterranean; Nice, the South of France. I was finally going to finish my journey begun so long ago. A different person, my best friend alongside me but still curious about the rocky beaches and bathing beauties there. Time and maturity diminished the animal appeal but it was a fun trip nevertheless.

The Cote d’Azur (Azure Coast) has long been known in movies and songs as the French Riviera. This fantasy world encompasses the Mediterranean coastline of the southeast corner of France and includes the sovereign state of Monaco. While it has no official boundary, it is usually considered to extend from the Italian border in the East to Saint-Tropez, Hyeres and Toulon in the West. It’s here that dreams are made and visitors can pretend to be somebody else like me fifty years ago.

Many visitors come to Nice to live out their dreams and fantasies. Nice, the capitol of the Rivera is the fifth largest city in France and houses the country’s third busiest airport. Traffic from Cannes, St. Tropez, Nice and Monte Carlo all use the airport. Tourism is now the largest economic driver in the region.

Tram Cars                                                     img 5495

Although it still harbors some of the characteristics of the “Grande Dame of the Cote d’Azur,” Nice has managed to create a special modern-day flavor all of its own. Unlike the other cities that hug the rocky shoreline of the Mediterranean, Nice has distinguished itself from neighboring Cannes and St. Tropez to the West and Monti Carlo on its eastern flank.

It’s not just the youthful tourists who flock to its rocky beaches or speed through town in their flashy sports cars. It’s not just the modern bike share system or light rail cars that whisk visitors to its museums, galleries and historical buildings. Instead, there seems to be a freshness in the air borne of beautiful young women, strapping men and plenty of socialization going on all day and night. I was just passing through town for one day and yet I could feel that special vibe every-where I went.

The French Riviera is a major yachting and cruising area and hosts 50% of the world’s super yacht fleet, with 90% of all super yachts visiting the region’s coast at least once in their lifetime.

400,000 years ago, the first people of Nice were chasing elephants. In 400 B.C. a Greek commercial center was thriving there. In 154 B.C. the Romans were building a second city on its hills. But it wasn’t until the late 19^th century that its winter warmth and clear blue shoreline attracted a new kind of visitor. Gradually old fisherman’s shacks and commercial stone buildings were replaced by splendid palaces built on the altar of conspicuous consumption.

The coastline became one of the first modern resort areas in the world. With the arrival of the railway in the mid-19^th century, Nice became the playground and vacation spot for British, Russian and other aristocrats. It was finally the Americans who gave the region an aura of charm, incalculable wealth and a fashionable way of life that became known around the world. Think of it back then as a multi-cultural ‘Downton Abby’ by the seashore.

Speaking of seaside attractions, one of the monikers of French beaches is their reputation for topless sunbathing and other distractions for the mind and eye. I ran into a similar cultural phenomenon in Bali and found that shooting video there (quite innocently for my own cable series) could be easily misconstrued by husbands and boyfriends who spot you before you pan over to their half-naked girlfriends or wives.

This time around I only had a still camera but wisely kept it holstered so that my stroll along the promenade wasn’t misunderstood or challenged. No need for caution though. The only topless babes I saw there were less than one year of age or so old I was too embarrassed to look. Must have been an off-day at the beach.

Despite the Midwestern beach scene that day, there was still an atmosphere of casual sexuality all around town. Perhaps it was the rugged tan bodies of all the French, Italian and Spanish youth hanging out in the piazzas and corner cafes all hours of the day and night.

Speaking of flowering beauty, Nice hosts one of the largest flower markets in all of France. On any given day, flower vendors fill the large plazas with their fragrance and colors.

Compared to other large cities such as Paris or London or Hong Kong, Nice is relatively small in square miles. Yet what it lacks in square footage, it makes up for in a constant stream of new cultural, social and pop icons that gradually make their way out into the rest of the world. It’s a natural incubator for fresh ideas and bold strokes of innovation. It’s in the air and on the tattooed backs of youthful exhibitionists. It’s a rich tapestry of ideas and color woven into everyday items and life styles.

It took until the end of our journey through the region of Provence before I realized that one of my favorite films of all times “A Man and A Woman” was filmed in great part in that region of France. I shouldn’t be surprised.

The area, like the film, had a grip on my heart and imagination long before this present journey was over. Nice can do that to the soul. It still casts bright shadows of excitement whenever I go back there…if only in my mind.