Posts Tagged ‘Memories’
Some Days
Some days, you eat the bear, some days, the bear eats you. I am growing weary of the wetness that has ground our projects to a halt, and have noticed a sense of dread settling in. That bugs me, that sense of dread, because it is so familiar that it carries with it a feeling of being “right,” even though, now I know better. I don’t like how comfortable I am with that feeling of doom and gloom. That is where I spent a good part of my life, so it is not a surprise that my simply deciding to think and act differently, hasn’t immediately erased the years of memory.
There has been some added stress at the day-job, which is pressuring me to the extreme, and looks like it may continue for an unknown duration. The ‘not knowing’ feeds into my stress, partly because it is putting other plans at risk. I was supposed to leave for a week of biking this coming Friday. I have no idea how that is going to work.
Yesterday, after having driven to the city to work on a Saturday, I got home and found Cyndie had accomplished a lot of mowing. That eases my mind a bit. She wasn’t able to get to it all, but at least the place doesn’t look entirely neglected. We can’t make it look as good as we’d like because there are so many obstacles hindering the job. She has to navigate areas of standing water, huge divots from heavy equipment driven on the property, lumber piles, dirt piles, ditches, posts and ropes holding trees up, and the little flags marking where utilities are buried. We’ve lived with those dang flags for almost as long as we’ve been here, back in October. That’s how long our projects have been underway.
This long duration of things being in disarray is one of the stresses that drives me batty. I just want to turn the corner where we can start putting the things we have made a mess of, back in order again.
I found Cyndie working on the back hill when I pulled up to the house. She was working on the dirt scar left by the geothermal boring project. I changed clothes and headed out to help. It struck me that this was just one of a variety of things we have in mind to work on. Last weekend, it was the labyrinth that was on her mind. We didn’t make great progress on that, and the weather was lousy, so we switched to the landscape pond. Now, instead of returning to the labyrinth, we are on the back hill. We just chip away on whatever wins our attention at any given moment.
It all needs to be done, but my concrete-sequential mindset drives me to want to work in order. Cyndie’s tendency toward random, like the way she mows the lawn, allows her to be comfortable working on anything at any time. It is a good exercise for me to just go along with her.
The work on the dirt of the back hill turned out to be grueling. It is far from dry, and we were getting sprinkled on as we worked, eventually turning into a steady rain. The majority of what has been exposed is clay. The first goal was to just break up and rake out the ruts of the tire tracks left by their equipment. Then she wants to plant grass again. I think we are going to want to bring in some black dirt. The clay was just brutal, and stuck to our tools, turning them into useless heavy clubs every few minutes.
I gave up, when it turned from sprinkles to rain, but Cyndie kept at it, and finished the last section before coming in to wash off the mud and get dry.
What a long way we have come from the extreme drought conditions that prevailed when we arrived here last fall.
Contemplating Memory
A wonderful person I supervise at the day-job was addressing the roomful of us, describing an alarming incident that happened on his drive to work. The latch on the hood of his car released while driving full-speed on the interstate highway. He looked at me and made reference to the time my car had the same problem.
My blank stare gave me away.
“Don’t you remember?” he asked.
I didn’t want to completely deny his assertion of the occasion, so, admitted I wasn’t sure. In actuality, I would have comfortably stated that I had never had that experience before in my entire life. Any hint of a memory about such a thing had long ago gone missing.
Minutes later, while visiting the restroom –after he had described how he had gone out to my car with me to look into it (because he and I have the same model car)– I found myself with time to think about it. I exhumed a faint recognition of our both being out at my car, in front of our building, with the hood open. That’s it. That is all I can muster. And, only with the help of his series of descriptions of the event.
I will admit that my immediate reaction, standing at the sink, was to think of how my mother’s memory fractured and faded before our eyes in her later years. Was this my first hint of a pending similar fate for me?
More significant to me was the realization of how wrong I was in my confidence that I had never had that experience before in my life.
In my years of self-analysis since being diagnosed for depression, receiving treatment in the form of talk therapy, and subsequently contemplating my acquired dysfunctional perspectives, I discovered far too many instances where I staunchly defended something in which I held an unreasonable confidence.
I expect that my past depression has robbed me of a lot of memories. At the time, I wasn’t in a healthy enough mindset to record experiences like a mind otherwise would. Historically, I felt that if I had no memory whatsoever about something, then it never could have happened to me. It wasn’t so much a logical deduction, it didn’t feel possible to me that I would have no memory of something.
I no longer possess that same confidence. At the same time, I still need to practice the art of being conscious of the fragility of my perspective of the here and now. It’s something that a few horses will be more than happy to assist me with, I’m sure. Everything fits together rather nicely, don’t you think?
I wonder if I will retain a memory of having had this specific experience and following insight. I’d say that having written about it should be a help, except I tend to forget most of the things I’ve written in the past, so that doesn’t provide much of a confidence boost.
Fascinating Stuff
In the process of packing up two-and-a-half decades of accumulation around our house, Cyndie has uncovered reams of precious records that document our children’s young lives. Fascinating stuff, all of it. She has an excellent ability to quickly browse through mounds of documents, which is a good thing, since she is so good at saving mounds of documents. I’m a bit more clumsy in my review. Progress would slow to a crawl if it were left for me to sort through it all.
We are at that point when it is time to choose whether to continue to save, or to finally discard. It has me wondering about the ultimate value of keeping pieces of ourselves from the past. It is a bit of a conundrum for someone with an interest in genealogy. In generations to come, such records will offer valuable insight to any descendents engaged in research of their ancestry.
Reading some of the things our children wrote for school assignments also has me thinking about what it must be like for teachers who process hundreds of kid’s thoughts, year after year. A saintly act. I have the benefit of knowing how the kids turned out, so the drama and angst of the young, developing minds is somewhat muted. I can’t imagine having to read the writings of vast numbers of frustrated students, in real-time, that teachers annually face.
The papers I found myself reading may have been assignments to practice writing, or demonstrate grammar, and seemed to capture a snapshot of a young person’s developing mind. When I read what our children wrote, I became aware of how far they have come since that time. These childhood writings no longer applied to them. It felt almost unfair to their present adult selves, to be reading what they thought back then. I say ‘almost,’ as in, not entirely. Part of me, certainly, as a parent, thoroughly enjoys the experience of witnessing the range of growth they have achieved.
If Cyndie hadn’t saved it, I wouldn’t have been given this chance.
So, do we continue saving it?
I’m torn. A large part of me is of a mind to leave all that behind and focus on living in the current moment. Most likely, if our kids don’t choose to hang on to any of it, we will pare it down to a fraction of the total, and preserve just a few pieces. A compromise, to appease the sentimental parent in both of us. However, I sense doing so would just be delaying the inevitable moment when we have reason to purge accumulation again sometime in the future.
It will be fine with me if we never have to pack for a move like this again!
Deep Memories
A friend once asked me what it was like to have had such an idyllic childhood, after I described what I remembered about my early years growing up on a farm. Yes, that property which my grandfather purchased after the end of World War II was a great place for a kid to live. I’m discovering it may have made more of an impression on me than I have been aware. (See posts about that farm, published here in Relative Something, 3-years ago, starting here.)
Yesterday, Cyndie and I drove to visit the property we are soon purchasing, and then have dinner at a local restaurant in recognition of the 31st wedding anniversary we reached this past week. Part of me was interested in departing during rush hour, to get some exposure to what the traffic pattern is like at a time of day I may be trying to get home from the day-job. The rest of me didn’t really care much at all about that, because, regardless the traffic, the destination is just so incredibly thrilling.
The late September afternoon couldn’t have been any more perfect, for the crisp, clean air, bright sunshine, and, sprawling out in front of us, to the east, a spectacular cloud formation that grew increasingly dark-gray at the bottom, washing down to earth, as a result of the rain falling out of it.
I had it in mind to turn off the primary highway, shortly after we crossed into Wisconsin, to check out local roads that appear to be the most direct route to our property, as viewed from overhead on a map.
Our dreamy fairy tale of discovering this perfect property is one that just couldn’t be any better, …except it keeps becoming more so.
Getting off the main road, with its wide frontage and striped pavement, and onto scenic, rolling, narrow country roads, turned out to be better than I imagined. Some of the pavement is even freshly laid this summer. The scenes that unfold include dramatic vistas of forested hills and picture-perfect swaths of farmed fields. So much of the drive to our property is akin to staring into a multitude of fabulous paintings of quintessential country landscape scenery, it feels surreal, especially after decades of driving in the suburban metropolitan scene-scape of which we are long familiar.
When we pulled up the driveway (which Cyndie had me check on the car’s odometer: a quarter of a mile long), and I considered the thought that this would be my entrance to home every day, there was a sense of awe that felt supernatural. It also felt familiar, like this is a return to something I know from long ago.
I can’t help but think of my father, and his experience on the farm property his father had purchased. There are some deep-seated memories being awakened by this wonderful wooded property in the country. I’m not entirely sure whether I am recognizing my father’s experience, or my own childhood memories.
I think the familiarities that would come from both, are probably shared.
The Best
I recently discovered the concept of referencing the question of where you are from, by asking, “Where is your placenta buried?” I saw it in the article about Vanishing Languages in the latest issue of National Geographic Magazine.
“This is how the Seris ask, Where are you from? Those who were born before hospital births know the exact spot where their afterbirth was placed in the ground, covered in sand and ash, and topped with rocks.“
Mine was a hospital birth, I’m confident in saying. I don’t actually remember it, but I’ve seen pictures that provide pretty good evidence. One image depicts my mother, with two visiting friends gazing down at me (we think it’s me –I’m the 5th of 6 kids, so it could be a sibling), and the two ladies each have a cigarette cradled between two fingers.
It was a long time ago. These things happened back then.
My placenta didn’t get buried anywhere that I am aware of, but on this day, 53-years ago, I parted company from it and began breathing air. Ever since, I have considered myself as being from Eden Prairie, Minnesota.
One of my longest enduring friendships began in Eden Prairie, in 1st grade at the EP public school. Paul Keiski and I were born one day apart. His birthday was yesterday. He’s like an older brother. One day older.
We are both active, athletic guys, but you might not have guessed that would be the case if you saw us back then. We both have memories of having stayed inside during recess, to draw pictures of Batman, Robin, and the Batmobile. I’m sure we were way too naive to imagine our shared activity was laying a foundation for a life-long connection, but it was.
Yesterday, I received the best possible present from Paul. I had forgotten to acknowledge the occasion of his day with a birthday greeting, until an email arrived in my inbox, wishing me a happy birthday. Upon processing the thought that this greeting had arrived a day early, I was struck by the realization that it meant that it was Paul’s birthday! I sent him a note.
His wonderful reply followed shortly, ending with this closure: “Cheers on another year, your present is enclosed. -PK” and the attached image:
That’s just the absolute best!
Thirty Years
It was thirty years ago today that Cyndie and I were married in a morning outdoor ceremony in a garden on the shore of Lake Minnetonka.
As milestones go, each decade seems to hold particular significance, so this is our third time to realize that phenomenon. Last night I took a little tour through my Life Story item, a journal of sorts, which I share with the members of my online community, Brainstorms. I was looking for images that I recall having posted there.
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Shocking as it is, there is this one:
It was taken after the wedding, in the moments before we departed for the north shore of Lake Superior on our honeymoon. People have asked me if we were legal age to be married. The good news about that youthful countenance is that it has held true to this day. People continue to assume us to be a lot younger than we are.
We have had an amazing run at this relationship thing. Most dramatic for me was the period when, and since, we sought couples counseling to get past a difficult time. It worked wonders for us.
Now we are on the verge of a whole new aspect for our relationship as Cyndie prepares to move to Boston, while I will remain in Minnesota. We are enjoying looking back over the years and both feel prepared for what the future holds.
It is not the same milestone, but this day is significant for our son, Julian, as well. He was born on this day in the year of our 7th anniversary. It has been special to share the date with him all these years. Happy birthday, Julian!
Soul Memory
I watched the NFL Vikings last night in their final preseason game, and this thought occurred to me: I would really like to have 5 huge guys blocking out the hazards that threaten to tackle my progress at work every day.
My father's hat
The National Football League games have changed so much since the days of my youth that I now find them almost unwatchable. But over and over I am drawn to try. American football reminds me of my father. The Minnesota Vikings remind me of my father. There is an amazing bond there. I watch the games.
At a very impressionable age, I became captivated by my home-town team and the Viking athletes that played the games. That fascination rooted deep in my entire being. It brings me little pleasure to see what the sport has become today, but I can’t shake the memories of the fascination. It feels like a part of my soul.
Unintentional Memories
For all the lambasting I do about commercials and advertisements, I remember way too many of them. I guess it is logical. Instead of simply ignoring them, I allow myself to notice them and become annoyed. Then I end up finding the tag lines stuck in my head for the rest of my life.
I suppose the fact that I also am all-too-willing to brag up the few specific ads that I find clever or funny, may contribute to my affliction of “commercial memory” syndrome.
I am afraid that this is a classic case of me not practicing what I preach. I proclaim that the majority of advertising doesn’t deserve our attention. But, then I end up allowing the ads to catch my attention and take me prisoner. It is not something I am proud to admit.
Some of the memorable lines are understandable, for the almost universal attention they garnered:
“Only YOU can prevent forest fires.”
“Where’s the BEEF?”
“A little dab ‘ll do ya!”
“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!”
“Mikey will eat it!”
Why do I also still remember the following lines?:
“Think about it, won’t you?”
“There’s no whipped cream on mine!”
“Haveyougotthe microwave workin’ yet?”
I don’t remember what products these lines were meant to sell, but I still find myself reciting them at various odd times, in informal social settings. It is like having an odd ‘tick’. Only my peers seem to recognize the true origin. Anyone too young to have heard the original commercials must wonder what the heck I mean, as they try to interpret a literal meaning from the phrases.
I guess that could explain the looks I frequently get from them in response to my ramblings.
Tour de Prairie
I finally got myself on the bicycle on Saturday. It was nice to discover the bike remains in good shape. I added air to the tires, touched up the chain with a bit of lube, and it was ready to go. With minimal effort, I was able to find all my gear, although the helmet required a bit of adjustment to the straps in order to fit my head, sans dreadlocks.
I took my camera along and did a spontaneous tour of my community. The trees are just starting to pop. I meandered my way past Bryant Lake toward the place on Flying Cloud Drive where I worked for 18 years. Part of the building still remains, but much of it has been torn down and replaced by something different. I traveled among the buildings of the industrial park that replaced the farm of my earliest years. I rode past the Enblom’s place and then took a lap on the trail around Smetana lake. There were a lot of geese sitting on nests in the reeds along the shoreline.
Next, I traveled past the shopping mall where I worked at a record store for a year after I graduated from high school. Then south on Homeward Hills Road to Pioneer Trail where I ventured past Franlo Road to see if friends were out in their yard doing chores. Nobody home. Looked like they were away for the weekend.
Backtracking, I made my way to the sport fields by the airport where I coached soccer for so many years. I rode into the buzz of the Saturday afternoon activity to get a big dose of memories. I stood for a bit and watched a baseball team work on bunting defense. Repetition, repetition, repetition. It was fun to hear the kids shouting commands to each other, demonstrating they were aware of what they were doing.
The only thing left between that site and my destination of home was the neighborhood where I lived after the farm. I slowly pedaled on Cedar Ridge Road to the cul-de-sac where our house was located. They have changed the house numbers! Is nothing sacred? I tried and tried to see the trees of the neighborhood as 35 years older. It doesn’t look that different, except for the two trees right in front that have been planted since we left. The large number of cedar trees have hardly changed a bit. I’d be willing to bet there are few, if any, of the same families living in those houses.
As I passed the Picha farm spring plant sale, just before the street to my house, I saw that my odometer indicated 25 miles. I accomplished just enough distance, and exposed my unprotected limbs to just short of being burned by the sun, so I felt it was a good first-of-the-season ride.
Now, to somehow get myself to do it again before too long. Sunday, my neck muscles were tired and my seat was feeling tender. I have a lot of work to do to get into shape for my annual week of biking in June.
For Mom
What little boy doesn’t feel that Mom is everything? It is not so hard to understand why a person would believe that their mother is the best in the world. My mother invented food. She made my clothes. My mom was the rock in all situations; the calm in any storm. Elizabeth (Betty) Elliott Hays did not lecture me on who I should be, she enabled me to become who I am. She demonstrated to me how to be a good person by being a good person. Most of the time, she was oblivious to that fact. Not only was my mother the most wholesomely classy person imaginable, she was the best mother in the world. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
Relative Something 
