Digital Fairy Dust
There are times in ones life when experiences transcend the
ordinary and leave a permanent deposit in your memory bank. A simple picture
can capture those long since forgotten memories and ‘oh, yeah’ moments in one small
smudge of bites and bytes and color hues.
They don’t replace or supplement the other zillion memory
capsules flowing around inside your head. They just seem to rise to the surface
more often than others.
They don’t define a person, just a micro-second ‘in the life
of…’ A gentle jog to pin-
prick a memory bubble that is holding warm reflections void
of harsh reality. A happy occurrence spilling out gentle remembrances without
conditions or judgment.
I came across this picture of my father not long ago. It was
in my office, buried behind books, treatments, scripts and other sundry tools
of my emerging trade. It’s the only one I have of him and it comes without a
caption or location. My mother kept that a secret like she did most everything
else about him. His parents came from French Canada. I think he was raised in
or around Detroit. He married my mother after another marriage failed. There
were two kids right away. He left after two years and died four years later in
some old unnamed hotel in Missoula, Montana at the age of forty-six. That’s
about it. I know nothing more about him.
And at about the time I started to care, my mother had
lapsed into old stories and frag-mented memories mostly made up so I wouldn’t
question her any more about him. So I left it at that and never looked back.
Until now.
Funny how you can look at a picture and still have a
thousand questions that you know can’t be answered. You can study the eyes and
facial features and still can’t get a true picture of who this man is that
you’re looking at. Then for the first time, you realize that he had a mustache.
Who knew? I’ve had one since my twenties and never knew why.
My sister and I were raised as two individuals, living
totally separate lives, under the same roof. Now after forty or so years of
estrangement, we’re having lunch often and caring about each other. Too bad it
took so long to become brother and sister. Lots to make up for.
First time out of the country while I was still in the
service. Experienced a minor earthquake in Mexico City, riding it out in an
old hotel made of abode and brick. Hung out with students at the University,
talking smack about Vietnam. Got sick from the ice in my warm Pepsi in Acapulco
and had this great story idea while hiking these Mayan Ruins. (“Follow the
Cobbler”) anyone.
First time living out of the country. Had a friend’s moped
for buzzing around town on weekends, a library card at a branch library and a
steady job. But a basement apartment that even the rodents wouldn’t live in.
She probably knew it was over long before I had a clue. I
expect now that my trip to Boston was ‘fait accompli.’ But we spent time on
Beacon Hill, New York City and points in-between attempting to patch up a
fragmented lack of communication. It was ultimately a lost cause. Think
“America” by Simon and Garfunkel or “Galway Girl” by Steve Earle.
Susan was able to see past my urban ghetto near the
University, the dust-mites under my bed, the red and yellow walls in my kitchen
and other vestiges of a man-boy living on his own. We were both chasing our own
elusive goals in that vast confusing maze called adulthood. Ultimately we found
it within ourselves and not with one another. She was a very nice person.
It started out with phone calls every night, seven nights a
week for months on end. Just chatting about anything and everything. The long
phone calls have ended and now we spend a lot of time apart under the same
roof. Communication is more routine now but still completes the circle of
understanding between us. I feel her presence and she feels mine. We
communicate in subtle ways that only forty plus years of living together can
produce. It’s all good.
Stranger in a strange land. Chattanooga, Tennessee. A
Northern Yankee in public television trying to figure out southern culture
where none existed. At least I had my Amsterdam pictures on the walls to remind
me of more accepting countries. After eleven months, we escaped to Maryland and
one of the best jobs I’ve ever had and some of the nicest folks I’ve had the
pleasure of knowing. Some are still our friends to this day.
By mile sixteen I was as good as dead. In more pain than I’d
ever experienced before in my life. Injuries during my training sessions had
robbed me of critical time ‘on the road’ needed to prepare me for the torture
ahead. It was not an exaggeration to say that every fiber in my body was
screaming out to end the misery.
Melanie patiently stuck with me, losing any chance of her
own PB. Then at mile sixteen she quietly said that if I dropped out she would
continue on to finish the marathon by herself. The thought of meeting my
daughter at the finish line with her a true marathoner and myself a dropout was
enough to spur me on. She carried me for the next ten agonizing miles.
I had no choice. If I had quit, I knew I’d be back training
the very next day and I would be on the starting line the following October.
Better to die slowly now, I thought, rather than live with failure for another
twelve months until the next marathon.
We spent six days, pounding out 50-75 miles each day, as we
rode our bikes across the state of Minnesota in an event called the TRAM; the
ride across Minnesota. At night we slept in a stifling heat that caused sweat
beads to run tickling lines across our skin, keeping us up half the night. We
ate like pigs and chugged beers with wild abandon. And lived a vagabond life
for six wonderful days on the road. It didn’t match our vision quest in the
Amazon jungle but it sure came close.
They are the next generation, facing challenges and
wonderful opportunities at one in the same time.
They’ve got more frequent flyer miles than a lot of adults
and have tasted both the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans. They’ve skied black
diamonds in Colorado and hiked the deserts of Southern California. They’ve
sailed quiet lakes in the Midwest and began the ritual of gymnastics, soccer,
t-ball, art class, music class, ECFE, pre-school and first grade. Each has a
library in their own room and of course at Nana and Papa’s homes. They’re read
to every night and are just beginning to understand the power of literature.
Even if it’s Ella the elephant or Lama Lama for that nights reading.
Much will be expected of them. I know they’re up to the
challenge.
Part of it is the luck of the draw. Or good genes. Or that
lucky intersection of like-minded individuals deciding to give it a go. Then
the kids come along and a whole new set of challenges arises. And at about the
time that battle has been won and the troops are safely home, it begins all
over again and a new generation begins demanding your time and attention and
love and affection. It’s actually easier the second time around, I guess,
because some of the parameters have been moved back a bit and there’s usually a
little more breathing space.
Of course, we gave them advice for twenty plus years so now
they feel it’s their turn to give us advice. For another twenty or so years.
Isn’t it grand?
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