Category Archives: Memory

The Constant Past

Drink:  Elijah Craig 12 Year*

I’m finding myself in a nostalgic mood which doesn’t happen often.

I tend to dispose of life’s excess without a second thought.  Old photos, souvenirs, Christmas cards, all gone: thrown out in a fit of needing more organizational and breathing space.  Greeting cards actually get disposed of after my first read through.  What do I honestly need to save them for?  Especially the signed-only cards, the ones where the sender just signs their name after the card’s author’s whimsical rhyme or generic seasonal greeting.  “Season’s Greetings.”  What is that?  Isn’t it a season at every moment?  Why don’t I get cards in the mail for the summer solstice?  “Season’s Greetings.”  Only this one comes with a wonderful illustration of a charcoal grill (because illustrations of gas grills just don’t cut it) letting me know that it’s been chosen for just this special occasion, complete with a lonely signature and maybe a little hand-drawn heart.  Greeting card cliches aside, my nostalgic moods are few and far between and short lived when they do happen.  But they do happen.

Between Wife’s pregnancy, fostering Buttercup, a busy job, and a house needing updates galore (and the outdoor season is upon us, perfect for viewing exactly which exterior updates are begging to be done), I’m overwhelmed.  This is when nostalgia sets in.  When the present succumbs to life’s inevitable changes, especially in significant quantity (and quality), I look to certain things past with longing.  Events, relationships, places.  The constancy of those things, as they’ve already happened and can’t be changed, is comforting.  No matter how much time passes, the past won’t change.  Life’s circumstances will change.  I’ll change, and will look at the past through maturing eyes (hopefully), but the past itself remains constant.

I was in the basement getting some laundry going when I remembered a box with my high school yearbooks.  I picked out the one from my graduating year, as that’s where the most significant notes were written by my classmates, to remember.  Certain notes I expected to be there, but others I was surprised to find as I’d forgotten them.  And certain notes were missing that I know are supposed to be there; maybe I’m missing some pages?  I discovered/remembered a few things.

I was a real flirt.  The ratio of girls’ notes to guys’ notes is like 25:1.  For my entire senior year, I sat at the “girls’ table” at lunch.  There was something about the conversations my fellow male classmates had that just irked me so I avoided them during the most sociable part of the day: lunch.  Instead, I sat with the girls whose conversations were much more mature, and more enjoyable to listen to and take part in.  Yeah, right, you say, they gossip and talk about….yeah, yeah, yeah, I know the stereotypical high school girl conversations, but you have to understand that my class was, even according to several teachers, the best class to ever pass through our high school’s halls.  We were more mature and more unified than any other class.  I was proud to be a part of it.  So, anyway, it was nice to reread that I was popular with the ladies.  I’m settled now, so it doesn’t matter in the least, but it’s fun to remember.

The three adjectives that I see repeated most often were that I was sweet, funny, and loud (and in that order).  The sweetness has been tempered by increased responsibilities and the mental and emotional space they occupy.  Some of the authors of the notes would be disappointed to find that out.  The humor has been honed, focussed, and reigned in by integrity (thankfully).  The loudness has only increased through my time working with teenagers; these vocal cords go up to eleven.  I once was at an event held in a stadium that was being recorded.  The announcer mentioned a date and used the wrong month, and I shouted out the correction.  Mind you, I was up near the nose bleeds and the speaker was in the center of the stadium.  Listening to the playback later, I could distinctly hear my shout.  I was very proud.

There was a particular note that I was looking for in the yearbook.  I looked through it at least eight times to no avail.  I’m convinced there’s a section missing and I’m quite upset by that.  When you spend seven to eight hours a day with the same group of people for nearly all of your growing-up years, you come to cherish those formed relationships.  One in particular, with a former lady friend (I had a thing for her; she says she never did for me but I never believed it; either way we were really close), has since fallen silent due to a lack of upkeep and some misunderstandings.   This is one of two relationships that I tend to look back on the most.  Probably because it was one of my deepest and most intimate (then) and when life gets tough and my deepest and most intimate relationship (now, and compared with all of them ever by a long shot) with Wife gets tough as well, I feel alone.  Like I’m trekking through this desert companionless and isolated.  And when I feel alone, I like to remember times when I didn’t, and the people that helped me feel that way.

I play the “what if” game.  What if we had dated?  What if we had made different decisions?  What if I had poured my heart out before it was too late?  What if we had gotten married?  I try to keep my answers in check as I can wander too far without a tether in reality and paint pictures in false light cast by ideals.

That’s the problem with the “what if” game.  Instead of helping me cope with how things are and where they’re going, I move toward how I wish things were.  And when that happens, I start losing maturity ground.  What I need to do is man up and adapt to the changes, not lament over the loss of the familiar.  I can’t lead my family through new territory if I’m self medicating with nostalgia.  Rather than being sober and in the present, ready to take on the unknown for the sake of Wife, Buttercup, and the little one on the way, I’m doped up on ideals of the past and “what if” scenarios.  That doesn’t help anyone.  That numbs my senses and renders me useless.

Learning from the past is a great, and implementing appropriate changes from that education is wise.  But dwelling there can be detrimental.

*I don’t typically explain my drink choice, generally because there is no explanation to be had (I’m just drinking what I’m in the mood for at the given time of writing that particular post), but I felt it appropriate here.  Elijah Craig 12 year was the first bourbon that caused me to stop and contemplate what time had done not just with the whiskey in my glass, but with me.  I looked back at where I’d come from, and what I’d been through, over the last twelve years.  And this bourbon had, the entire time, been maturing in barrels in Kentucky through some history of its own.  I felt it a was good choice to drink for this post.

Tethered Memories

Music:  CAKE – Pressure Chief – Palm Of Your Hand

Drink:  Woodford Reserve

Some years ago, inspired by my girlfriend at the time, I began a blog.  It has since sat dormant for many years collecting e-dust as it was simply abandoned.  Perhaps it’s that life became too busy.  Maybe it’s that I’m married now and have a spouse to bounce my musings off of and no longer require a public processing space.  Or, like so many other things in my life, what began with strength and promise fell into disrepair and became a trophy on my “Wall of Incompl”.

Regardless of the reason, there it sits.  And for a time I was content with that.  It just wasn’t a priority for me.  My wife tried to encourage me to return to it as she enjoyed both my writing and my having a medium for it.  As much as my wife’s encouragement is desired and appreciated, in this case it held no weight.  It was like encouraging me to take a class on weaving the net for a soccer goal.  It was nice to hear, but why would I do that?

But as the dust collected on the blog, an itch began to grow (Do itches grow?  Increase?  An itch showed up?).  A collection of thoughts worth sharing and processing publicly started to outgrow its allotted mental space.

One of my traits is that I’m not nostalgic.  While there’s nothing wrong with that (it makes cleaning the house very easy; Christmas cards get a read and then they’re filed in the trash), it doesn’t help that without a memento of some kind, I forget.  Many a memory worth saving has been lost because photographs were never taken, or the ones that were are gone (sometimes by chocie), and souvenirs associated with various events have since taken up residence in a landfill.

Certain memories don’t need a tangible reminder; they become a seamless part of your being.  That night that your mutual affection for each other became undeniably apparent.  Seeing your newborn learn how to roll over for the very first time.  Watching your grandfather’s body lose its desperate grip on its last moments of life.  I can’t lose these memories unless I lose myself, for I am their reminder; they are attached to me.

But the former category, those memories lost without an anchor that are slowly losing shelf space, they need a home where they can be recalled and observed.

As I hate taking up room in the house with trinkets, this is the perfect solution.  I can express myself through written word, my favorite medium.  This won’t take up any physical room in my home (save the paper I may print it on for posterity in case the servers go down).  I won’t have just a few segments or abstract shapes of a moment, I’ll be able to read what was important enough to record in detail.

So here it is.  My external memory drive.  The joys and sorrows in life I wish to share and preserve in being a husband, a father, and a bourbon enthusiast.  May we learn together as we experience and remember together.