A Smattering of Memory

I can remember walking through the driveway to church one day in mid-autumn, telling everyone that I saw as we walked toward the church of the Nazarene that I had turned five that day. I was five years old, not holding my mother’s hand anymore as we walked past rows of early-90’s model cars, in the sunshine, with the smell of leaves circling around me and the heat rising off the blacktop. I knew that I would be seeing Roxanne sometime soon, and she would take care of me and the rest of the kids.

I have gleaned the score of memories allotted to me from the pictures and movies of my past. Who can say whether they really belong to me?

I can remember walking in the park with Jonathan and Clarissa, in Bjoin Park (the one that we always argued over the pronunciation, until Leah and I just began calling it the park by Jonathan’s house). I can remember sitting by the train tracks in the woods with my Three Musketeers, the Three Inseparables, waiting for the circus train to roll through town. For some reason on that day, I felt like arguing with Jonathan. He and I always had a continuing rivalry over the hand of our mutual friend Clarissa, the older wiser woman who remained the voice of reason and the anti-testosterone for several years—yes, all the years we were together. That day, in the sunlight, Jonathan had spotted something blue in the crook of a tree—probably something a bird had brought in there to add to her nest—and a debate began over the identity of our mystery substance. Jonathan and I agreed right away, in our childlike romanticism, that it was a sapphire, lodged for thousands of years in a tree trunk that had really only been around for twenty. The real debate started over what we should do with the sapphire now that we had found it. Jonathan wanted to let it remain in its natural habit, a shrine standing to all wayward children to remind them that nature is best observed and not touched. I, on the other hand, had an immense desire to snatch it from the hole in the tree and sell it for a fortune somewhere. During this period of my life, I consistently had grand aspirations to buy a plot of land out on the highway, and build a magnificent clubhouse/fort right on top of it. So, naturally, I thought that the money from the pawned gem would pay nicely for the expense of our hideout. From here, my best friend and I got into a very heated debate about the ethics of leaving nature untouched. We were seven and eight, he and I. In the middle of our fight, wise Clarissa went up to the tree and deftly plucked the “sapphire” from its hidey-hole, revealing it to be no more than a discarded and formless scrap of blue plastic. That day, we learned that woman’s wisdom would always triumph over the delusions of man.

I can remember my father, working hard every chance he got, to finish the basement. From my place at the island in the kitchen, I can hear the saw turning on in his shop. I know he’s working, so I think I’ll go down to see him. Walking through the remains of last night’s excursion into Lego Land with Leah, I hear that sound again: almost earsplitting but not quite. There is sawdust everywhere on the floor of the shop, and it smells like Dad, or perhaps he smells like the sawdust. To my right is the drain I was always afraid of, even when we moved when I was ten, going down, down into the floor with a wet smell rising off it. The shop is laden with the projects of the past, present, and future. There is the fort that I made myself that I could barely fit into, but I loved it anyway and no one discouraged me. There are the “pretty marks” that I made on Dad’s brand new workbench with the claw of my hammer. There is the light blue paint that never seemed to run out or leave his workspace. There is my toolbox, and the 2x4’s that I nailed holes in to spell words, or just for fun. Dad is wearing an old sweatshirt and jeans. Maybe the jeans have paint on them, maybe the sweatshirt does; one does, that is for certain. I can’t help but smile, as I see him turn around and notice me, turning the saw off with its special yellow key, and say “Hey schmuster, whatcha doing?” as he runs his free hand through his long unkempt hair. (Even now, I’m smiling.) He is my father, and I love him more than my childish heart can handle.

Years later, down in our freshly carpeted basement, I can smell the clean smell that a vacuum leaves behind, feel the carpet under my bare toes, warm and inviting, and there is our old couch, the one with the bed in it, that my sister and I would watch so many movies on, and the one that I slept under with Jonathan and Carl at my Three Musketeers birthday party, the one that felt carpeted itself, just like the floor. I remember in the basement, running full speed at Jonathan, bean bag in my hand, sleeping bag in his hand, and getting my front tooth knocked out two weeks early, feeling the warm gush of blood in my mouth, and mumbling to him in mushy syllables, “I fink my toof’s knocked ow.” Running upstairs to rinse it out with warm salt water, spitting pink, diluted blood into the sink, and cherishing my new tooth that I would most certainly place under my pillow that night for an extra dollar or two. I remember the next morning, waking up a little sore in the mouth, but happy for my additional bit of cash, crawling into my sleeping bag upside down, and trying to knock Jonathan over, Pickle Wrestling, I think we called it, since our bags were green.

I remember the car rides up to Maine every year. Looking forward to the pool at the hotel, dreading the long stretches of Ohio and New York, getting excited about going to Kimball’s Ice Cream and getting chocolate chip cookie dough. Arriving at the house in Maine, seeing Hannah and Haley and Grammie O. Going down to Crystal Lake, playing in the attic, needing to check and see if the bathroom upstairs was still pink! Watching the sun set out at Uncle Dick’s camp, while eating brown bread and red dogs with corn on the cob, sitting at the long picnic table with the whole family, going out on the boat. Listening to Grampa snore. These were the greatest times of my life, the quintessential summer, the month that dreams are made of. And it lasted for so long before it ended.

I remember going to the Dude Ranch in New York for Nanny’s 50th anniversary, sitting in the cabins that smelled (reeked) of pine sap and sawdust and horse manure. Sitting on the wicker furniture with the whole family, after a night of Gin Rummy and sarsperilla drinks, listening to my cousin Nicky the Hippy play Simon and Garfunkel on her acoustic guitar, letting the eerie melodies wash over me from her quiet guitar and peaceful voice. The day after, we went riding through the forest, galloping, something I’d never done before and Leah could show me up on how it was done, listening to our quirky guide Keith shout, “Come with me, my people. I will lead you into the promised land!” Kicking the flanks of my favorite horse Spider, we rushed into a fast gallop, and I was caught up in a wind of air and emotion, the tears given no time to trickle as they gusted off my face. That afternoon, I finally beat Nicky in ping pong.

I can remember standing on the edge of the boat. I’m in Florida, in the Keys, offshore of some small island where my troop had set up camp for three nights, and I’m wearing blue flippers and snorkeling gear. I’m terrified. Back at the base, our swimming instructors told us all about the dangers of swimming in open water, the same water which I’m about to leap into, and we were educated in the horrors of the deep. Right now, all I can think about is my goggles glinting off the sunlight, which would catch the attention of the neighborhood barracuda, who would proceed to then rip my face off and leave the rest of me for the sharks. I would rather drink rancid milk than jump into the water right now. Yet something compels me to take that first huge step out of the boat. Maybe it’s my friends: already in the water, egging me on. Maybe it’s a burst of self-confidence or courage. Maybe I’m just scared enough to ignore my impulse to chicken out. Whatever the cause, I jump. – There’s something about being underwater, and still being able to breathe, that scares the shit out of me. Thankfully, that feeling didn’t last too long in Florida. Once I got my initial fears and freakouts under control, I was able to swim around and enjoy God’s marvelous creation suspended in water. I have never had another experience like jumping off that boat, and now that I’m older, and those fears have begun to regress, I’m unsure if I’ll ever experience something like that again. Perhaps I need to find a new fear.

I can remember shade on a hot day in June, standing at a table behind a small house. It’s the same place we saw Shane and Chris do the Jesus for President session, but today, the focus is all about pie. “The Lost Art of Pie Baking” is what the sheet says, and it is a toss-up between the circus or delicious peach pie. Naturally we choose the option that includes the prospect of eating food. Nick came to PAPA Fest with me, which made the whole trip. Just he and I at a table making pie from scratch. First we mix all the ingredients together in a big bowl, smushing the dough and getting it all over our hands. There is a dust cloud of spices added to the beautiful orange slices of peach. The dough is rolled and formed to the bowl, and a lattice is placed over the fruit and sprinkled with sugar. We baked it and ate it afterwards. Such a simple thing, but it was a trip that gave me a chance to become closer to my friend. I’ve known him for a year, but it feels longer.