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.