She was very anxious to open up the developed film of the rolls of pictures she’d taken while on her travels overseas. She paid the clerk and rushed out the door, thinking that she might sneak a peak before she made it to the car, but thought better of it as it was snowing a wet snow and she didn’t want to ruin the pictures. She was just interested in the one shot she’d taken. As she passed through each photo, searching for the one shot, she got to thinking, “Hey, all of these aren’t that bad.” By the time she’d reached the intended photo, she’d already decided that she liked some of the other ones just as much.
*****
It is a hot and muggy day in South Carolina. I came home for lunch, as usual. I walk through the door, am greeted by an overly excited beagle mix, a pile of mail that is mostly bills, and a relief that I am away from work, if only for forty five minutes. It’s a routine that I’m in. We all get into routines, some good, and some bad. If we aren’t careful, we get into such deep ruts that we can’t see outside. We forget about what’s important and what is out there. We forget what we could be.
I reach into the mailbox finding the bills and whatever other junk they are trying to sell me. A lone post card sits face up in my slot. It is a picture of a couple of lumberjacks. One of them has just swiped his ax through a sequoia-sized tree. The other’s hands are in the air by his head, which contains a frightened look as if to say, “I’d best get me arse outta here before she falls all upon me!” Below the tree are a bottle and a half-empty pint glass. In bold Red letters it states “Guinness for Strength.”
“Ah, she knows me well,” I think to myself. It is a postcard from my sister, the one who I consider the traveler. She tells me about her trip in Ireland in a three or four sentence blurb. I’ll hear more about it when she gets back. We’ll talk for an hour or two on the phone about it. Then I remember her birthday is coming up. I’ll have to send her a card on time this year.
*****
I doze off into a dreamy state of semi-consciousness. I picture myself flying through low-lying clouds with the light mist droplets bouncing on and around my face. The light clouds dissipate into an awesome view of majestic mountains surrounded by green grassy hills. I see a lone figure twirling in circles with her arms spread open and a melody beginning to pour out of her mouth.
“The hills are alive….”
I awake in a sweat. Shit, I think, I’ve seen that movie way too many times. Damn it! I’ll have to let her know about this one.
Then it hits me. Shit, shit, shit, shit! It’s my sister’s birthday today. She’s turned thirty-two and I haven’t even sent her a card yet. Oh, she’ll love this one. “What’s your excuse this year?” she’ll ask.
“Well, I awoke in a hot steamy sweat with a picture of Julie Andrews singing in the hills of Austria. And its majestic mountains clouded my memory, thus forgetting your birthday,” I’d answer. Damned Sound of Music!
Yea, she’ll get a kick out of that one. She’s always been cool like that. She’s helped me out of some real jams, I tell you. She’s dropped over two grand my way to keep me going through school. I paid her back, but it’s stuff like that that makes me shake my head in disgust at myself.
I ease my mind a bit, knowing my exact excuse for my belated card. I give myself an inward smile and drift off to sleep again. This time I’m on a train. My buddy and I had drifted to sleep and suddenly awoke with the realization that we missed our stop. We are travelling at a slow speed right now, slow enough to jump with minimal damage to ourselves. Drastic times call for drastic measures and we grab our luggage and toss them off the train as it gains speed. Shit, this is going to hurt. We jump and roll down the embankment of the train track and fumble ten to fifteen feet in a cloud of dust and grass. Ouch. We would have ended up somewhere in Switzerland or something had we stayed on the train. Now we’ve got to lick our wounds, go gather our luggage and hike another half mile back to the rail road station. I look down at my hands, seeing that they are scuffed up a little bit with bits of grass and dirt in the fingernails. They seem a bit smaller than normal. I brush my long hair out of my face and around my left ear as to get a better look at my small hands. Then it hits me. Long hair? Small hands? What the hell???
I stir and wake up. What the hell was that? Now I’m freaking out! I get up to go to the bathroom, making sure everything is in place as it should be. I have never even heard of someone dreaming that they were someone else, let alone their own sister. Man, I remember her telling that story of her travels through Europe years ago. I couldn’t believe that she jumped from a moving train! Shit, I can’t believe I just dreamt that I was her jumping from that moving train!
If she thought the first dream was funny, hell, she’d be rolling hearing about this one! Maybe I’ll keep that one to myself. I get a glass of water and head back to bed. I must get that damned birthday card written as soon as I get up. Obviously a guilt factor is setting in.
I lay back down, turn the fan on high speed and flick off the light. That damned fan! It’s addictive as heroin I bet. The white noise it produces hums me to sleep every night. I remember visiting my sister while travelling with my mother and brother. My brother and I were all set to go to sleep in her Alexandria town home. Her room was downstairs with a huge bed that had a down mattress that she used as a comforter. We were on the floor, laying down on some blankets, our bodies in line with the huge box fan that was humming at a high speed. We heard a tussling upstairs as my sister and mother made it back from going out to a bar for the evening. They made their way downstairs to go to bed, and it was obvious my sister had a bit too much to drink. She was giggling like a little schoolgirl in gym class. She and my mother shared the huge bed, and climbed in under the feather mattress. I recall the giggling change into a faint groaning and hear a reference to how the room was spinning. I crack open my eyes and stare into the fan, watching the blades spin round and round. My mother turned out the lights and we all drifted to sleep.
I am dreaming again. This time I am travelling with my brother. We’ve already hopped all through Europe and have ended up in the country of our father’s birth. Morocco has a culture all unto itself. Its only similarity to the United States is that it blends several cultures together forming its own. We are sitting around a campfire at the edge of the great Sahara desert. It is very surrealistic in that there is an air of calm around us, though we are surrounded by the largest vast emptiness on Earth. It houses chaotic dust storms that roll up over the dunes, consumes them, and regurgitates them somewhere else miles away. That is the ultimate chaos; thinking you are settled in one spot, unmovable, yet in an instant you have traveled hundreds or thousands of miles away.
I gaze into the fire, and think back to when I was a kid, always dreaming of being a traveler. I’ve been all over the world and have brought back many stories and gifts from my adventures. Some jaunts have been seeking pleasure, others have been seeking knowledge, and others have been for caring of my family. I never realized how much it was going to become part of my life. I can barely remember one of the first trips I had was on a huge ocean liner sailing from this area of the world back to the United States. Right then and there on the deck of the boat I decided that this is one thing that I wanted to do often in my life. I might have been five at the time, but it is something that has stuck with me for all of these years.
I shake my head out of a daze. The fires in the desert can do that to you. I turn to look at my brother and see him in a similar state that I was just in. He is talking with another while staring wide-eyed into the fire, expecting to see the answer he seeks. As he looks into the fire, I imagine that he is seeking some guidance from somewhere beyond the realm of earth. I imagine he is looking for direction for his life. That is one of the reasons I invited him on this trip. I admire him for his openness with me on our journeys. He’s shared some things with me that I would have otherwise never known. Maybe the end of the trip will focus him focussed on what he wants to do. Maybe it will help him find…
CRACK!
The fire spits a cloud of read glowing ash into the air. The particles are consumed by their own fate and their glows fade until only dull, gray corpses are left rising into the great nothingness of the open sky. We all look up and follow their paths expecting to see something. We do.
*****
I open my eyes. I’m very tired and groggy and I glance over to the clock by my bed. It’s 4:30 AM. I have to be to work by seven, and felt like I haven’t slept in weeks. I just want to fall back asleep and find out what it was we saw in the sky. I roll over, kicking the dog in the process. She makes a slight grunt but is otherwise unaffected. Alright, now what was it I was dreaming about again? A rush of adrenaline suddenly pumps through me. My heart rate increases and my mouth dries a bit as I realize that again, I dreamt that I was my sister in one of her many travels. I was there with her and my brother in Morocco. No, I was almost acting as her while in Morocco a few years ago. Of course, I’ve never been to my father’s homeland, so this is all too weird. I get the distinct feeling that someone is trying to tell me something!
I fumble with the covers and throw them to the side of the bed. I’m too energized now to fall back asleep. I stand and walk to the living room and turn on the small desk lamp. I rustle through my briefcase and pull out a birthday card and yellow envelope. I sit down and begin to write. I pre-date the card with her birthday, and stop.
What can I write to her? What funny little thing can I write will ease my guilt yet convey to her I really feel about her on the anniversary of her birth? I gaze through the living room window outside to the calmness of the early morning. The sky is already getting lighter in anticipation of the rising sun. My foggy head begins to piece together some of the dreams I just had.
I realize that for once, I am at a loss for words. What can I say to someone I admire so much in the way she is and the way she deals with things and people? In that instant I decide that I need to get to know my sister better. I think it an awful thing not knowing her as I should. Hell, I’ve known her my whole life haven’t I? Yet, how much time have we spent together, one on one learning about each other? Not very much. Sure we know each other’s lives and all, but we haven’t connected, as siblings should.
I look down at the birthday card that I had bought months earlier. I begin to adjust the humor in the card to allow for my belatedness. Then, I try to think of what else to say. I write a few words hoping her birthday was a pleasant one and that I look forward to seeing her over the holidays. Then I write four words that convey what I have felt over that night. To me, it’s almost an invitation to myself to try to live the dreams I had just had. It would give me a chance to see and hear first-hand all of the stories she had told.
I look down at what I had written:
We must travel together!
I sign the card, lick the envelope closed, address and stamp for delivery. I turn off the desk lamp and head back to bed. I hesitate as I glance at the clock. It’s 5:15 and I will be getting up in an hour. The dog has already sprawled out, taking over the space of the entire bottom half of the bed. I hope it’s not like this if and when I get married! I don’t think my wife would be happy if I just nudged her with my foot to get her ass out of my sleeping space.
I crawl into bed and listen to the moaning grunt of the dog as if she were saying, “Make up your mind, would you? Sleep or get up!” I start to drift off to sleep again. I see myself flying through clouds of mist leading through high mountain peaks and grassy rolling hills. The last thing I think in my semi-conscious state is, “Shit, here we go again.”
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
2. The Eldest
As I grow in person and in character, I flash back to see whom else’s footprints I follow in my journey through life. A memory comes into my head, like an old black and white silent picture that has captions flash across the screen every few seconds. Here is the story that evolves…
There once was a guy, the eldest of six kids, who went off into the world to seek his fortune. He was the one everybody looked up to, as they knew he’d always be there for them. His brothers and sisters could count on him and his gentle ways. Some of them admired him and wanted to be just like him.
One year, this man came home to spend the Christmas holidays with the family he deeply loved. They lived in an old, cozy farmhouse. It wasn’t on a farm, mind you. It was in the edge of a neighborhood with a large field behind it. The field belonged to an old widow who left it alone, let some trees and shrubs grow, and allowed neighbors and teenagers to walk, ride, and play around in its web of dirt paths. The paths led from one end of the neighborhood to the other. One path in particular led back to this quaint, red farmhouse.
He arrived after a cold, Wisconsin snow. His new, dark and usually shiny car was light and dirty from the salt and sand that enveloped the highways for safe, winter driving. But it was his, paid for by his own money from his first new job. He was his own man. He came bringing many packages that they all knew had to be gifts.
It was a lovely Christmas that year. The family was blessed with a new addition; a little Shiatsu that looked remarkably like one of those Star Wars characters called Ewoks. The little ones of the family wanted to name it “Wicket,” one of the starring Ewoks in the movie “Return of the Jedi.” But the rest of the family agreed upon “Un Poquito,” or “Un Poco,” or just plain “Poco,” meaning small in Spanish.
There was what seemed like hundreds of gifts underneath the Christmas tree that year. The “big” gift was tucked away on the far corner of the tree, out of sight. All of the kids knew it was there and had sneaked a peak whenever it was their turn to choose the gifts for the next unwrapping. It said it was from Santa Claus, but didn’t say whom it was to. They all knew it had to be from the eldest son, but humored themselves into thinking it was from Santa.
The giant gift was the last to be opened, and the eldest presented it to his parents. The mother and father’s eyes swelled with tears. It could have been from their pride over the success and gentle hearted unselfishness of their eldest, or the realization they no longer had to watch television through the confines of an old, broken down cathode tube.
It was a brand new 24-inch screen television that was cable ready, equipped with a remote control. Oh, the ease of sitting back in the broken beige recliner and turning the channel had run through all of their minds. The eldest, standing back with a childish grin on his face asked if they liked it. He was smothered with hugs and kisses by seven people as well as a dog.
******
After a few days of settling in came the argument. He and his father began talking about work and life in general. As the little ones played with their new wealth of toys, they heard their father’s loud statements and their brother’s calm, collected responses. They could tell that both their father and brother were getting angry.
Several minutes went by with the arguing. The father stormed into the sanctuary of his office, while the eldest chose the door leading outside after grabbing his winter coat. IT was a cold night where the moon reflected on the snow. Clouds were starting to roll in with a gift of a light snowfall. It was a surreal scene.
The second youngest son saw what had just happened and decided to try and console his older brother. He put on his winter jacket and snow boots and ran out the door, down the steps and followed the footprints in the snow.
He had to hurry. He had to catch up with him, but what would he say? He kept on, following step by step in the freshly packed snow footprints. They led through the back yard into the field. The path was scarred by nothing but the prints in the snow.
They younger brother started to wonder what his older brother’s life was really like. It had seemed such a straight path, unchanged by the surroundings. With each step he took, he thought of how much he wanted to be like the eldest. He dreamed of a successful life with many presents and toys to give to his family.
He reached a crossroad in the path. The footprints had turned left. The boy wondered what if he had turned right or gone straight ahead. What life would lie ahead of him there? He decided to follow the footprints and find the path his brother had taken. He looked ahead hoping to catch a glimpse of his brother storming onward with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He saw nothing but what seemed like endless footprints in the snow.
He started to run. He had to catch his brother before…Before what he wondered. He slowed his pace, and kept pondering his own future. More turns were ahead, of that he was sure. He may never find his brother to save him from his anguish. Was it his place to do so? He didn’t know, but it felt right, so he kept moving.
The footprints had led back to the farmhouse. Snow covered the roof like a warm, comfortable blanket on a cold winter’s night. That whole walk, and for nothing. I am back where I started, the boy thought. He’d remember his own journey through his mind, of that he was certain. He hopped up the steps and opened the door to the warm comforts of home. There they all were. His brother and father had just finished hugging and making up for their argument.
Everyone seemed joyous again, unaware that the little boy had left on his own journey to rescue his eldest sibling. He didn’t say anything, just took off his jacket and boots and went on to the hordes of toys that they had acquired a few days before. Dinner was almost ready, and they were all famished. The little boy thought of how pretty the footprints in the snow were, then occupied his mind with the hot nourishment set before them.
*****
The eldest sister woke up early the next morning, got showered and dressed. She had just purchased a new roll of film to take pictures of the newly fallen snow with her new camera. She wandered out to the back yard to see what wonder nature brought the night before. Something caught her eye. That is gorgeous, she thought. The shutter snapped.
*****
Years later, the eldest son had found his own home, started his own family and was a very loving father, husband, brother and son. On his wall in the front foyer to his house was a photograph framed in dark brown stained oak wood. The photograph was that of the entrance to the field that was behind their old house back in Wisconsin. The trees hung low over the path due to the weight of the freshly fallen snow. The path was marked only with a single set of footprints. Only one couldn’t see that the footprints were not stepped in once but twice.
There once was a guy, the eldest of six kids, who went off into the world to seek his fortune. He was the one everybody looked up to, as they knew he’d always be there for them. His brothers and sisters could count on him and his gentle ways. Some of them admired him and wanted to be just like him.
One year, this man came home to spend the Christmas holidays with the family he deeply loved. They lived in an old, cozy farmhouse. It wasn’t on a farm, mind you. It was in the edge of a neighborhood with a large field behind it. The field belonged to an old widow who left it alone, let some trees and shrubs grow, and allowed neighbors and teenagers to walk, ride, and play around in its web of dirt paths. The paths led from one end of the neighborhood to the other. One path in particular led back to this quaint, red farmhouse.
He arrived after a cold, Wisconsin snow. His new, dark and usually shiny car was light and dirty from the salt and sand that enveloped the highways for safe, winter driving. But it was his, paid for by his own money from his first new job. He was his own man. He came bringing many packages that they all knew had to be gifts.
It was a lovely Christmas that year. The family was blessed with a new addition; a little Shiatsu that looked remarkably like one of those Star Wars characters called Ewoks. The little ones of the family wanted to name it “Wicket,” one of the starring Ewoks in the movie “Return of the Jedi.” But the rest of the family agreed upon “Un Poquito,” or “Un Poco,” or just plain “Poco,” meaning small in Spanish.
There was what seemed like hundreds of gifts underneath the Christmas tree that year. The “big” gift was tucked away on the far corner of the tree, out of sight. All of the kids knew it was there and had sneaked a peak whenever it was their turn to choose the gifts for the next unwrapping. It said it was from Santa Claus, but didn’t say whom it was to. They all knew it had to be from the eldest son, but humored themselves into thinking it was from Santa.
The giant gift was the last to be opened, and the eldest presented it to his parents. The mother and father’s eyes swelled with tears. It could have been from their pride over the success and gentle hearted unselfishness of their eldest, or the realization they no longer had to watch television through the confines of an old, broken down cathode tube.
It was a brand new 24-inch screen television that was cable ready, equipped with a remote control. Oh, the ease of sitting back in the broken beige recliner and turning the channel had run through all of their minds. The eldest, standing back with a childish grin on his face asked if they liked it. He was smothered with hugs and kisses by seven people as well as a dog.
******
After a few days of settling in came the argument. He and his father began talking about work and life in general. As the little ones played with their new wealth of toys, they heard their father’s loud statements and their brother’s calm, collected responses. They could tell that both their father and brother were getting angry.
Several minutes went by with the arguing. The father stormed into the sanctuary of his office, while the eldest chose the door leading outside after grabbing his winter coat. IT was a cold night where the moon reflected on the snow. Clouds were starting to roll in with a gift of a light snowfall. It was a surreal scene.
The second youngest son saw what had just happened and decided to try and console his older brother. He put on his winter jacket and snow boots and ran out the door, down the steps and followed the footprints in the snow.
He had to hurry. He had to catch up with him, but what would he say? He kept on, following step by step in the freshly packed snow footprints. They led through the back yard into the field. The path was scarred by nothing but the prints in the snow.
They younger brother started to wonder what his older brother’s life was really like. It had seemed such a straight path, unchanged by the surroundings. With each step he took, he thought of how much he wanted to be like the eldest. He dreamed of a successful life with many presents and toys to give to his family.
He reached a crossroad in the path. The footprints had turned left. The boy wondered what if he had turned right or gone straight ahead. What life would lie ahead of him there? He decided to follow the footprints and find the path his brother had taken. He looked ahead hoping to catch a glimpse of his brother storming onward with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets. He saw nothing but what seemed like endless footprints in the snow.
He started to run. He had to catch his brother before…Before what he wondered. He slowed his pace, and kept pondering his own future. More turns were ahead, of that he was sure. He may never find his brother to save him from his anguish. Was it his place to do so? He didn’t know, but it felt right, so he kept moving.
The footprints had led back to the farmhouse. Snow covered the roof like a warm, comfortable blanket on a cold winter’s night. That whole walk, and for nothing. I am back where I started, the boy thought. He’d remember his own journey through his mind, of that he was certain. He hopped up the steps and opened the door to the warm comforts of home. There they all were. His brother and father had just finished hugging and making up for their argument.
Everyone seemed joyous again, unaware that the little boy had left on his own journey to rescue his eldest sibling. He didn’t say anything, just took off his jacket and boots and went on to the hordes of toys that they had acquired a few days before. Dinner was almost ready, and they were all famished. The little boy thought of how pretty the footprints in the snow were, then occupied his mind with the hot nourishment set before them.
*****
The eldest sister woke up early the next morning, got showered and dressed. She had just purchased a new roll of film to take pictures of the newly fallen snow with her new camera. She wandered out to the back yard to see what wonder nature brought the night before. Something caught her eye. That is gorgeous, she thought. The shutter snapped.
*****
Years later, the eldest son had found his own home, started his own family and was a very loving father, husband, brother and son. On his wall in the front foyer to his house was a photograph framed in dark brown stained oak wood. The photograph was that of the entrance to the field that was behind their old house back in Wisconsin. The trees hung low over the path due to the weight of the freshly fallen snow. The path was marked only with a single set of footprints. Only one couldn’t see that the footprints were not stepped in once but twice.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
1. Father
Father, vater, pater, pitr, padre, père. Many ways of saying the same thing. How is it that only in the past century, we take one day in homage of our fathers? The YMCA has taken some credit in the starting of Father’s day. Back in the early 1900’s at a Spokane based YMCA, they decided to dedicate a day honoring fathers. Calvin Coolidge supported the idea of a national holiday honoring the father, and Lyndon Johnson signed a proclamation stating the third Sunday in June Father’s day.
What can I say about my father? So much to say, so little way of expressing my feelings toward him. Going through a little lightning memory trip may help.
Every evening after dinner, I remember the stories. It seems like hundreds of stories, some true, some doctored, and some just plain made up. But after a big dinner, it didn’t matter. We didn’t need a TV; we needed the pleasant story telling of my father to jump-start our imaginations.
Karda was the topic of many of the stories. I don’t remember quite what Karda was. I believe he was a hybrid of magical flying dragon, crocodile and kangaroo all wrapped up into one. Karda would take us kids on heroic journeys in far lands of ‘never-never land.’ I always had thought of Karda as my guardian angel in these adventures. I’d dream of him being a wise all-knowing being. To me, Karda was like the Lion in the C.S. Lewis story The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Whenever we were in trouble during the adventurous stories, Karda would always come and save the day and if we were lucky, maybe bring us to a place where we could eat our candies and deserts all the time!
That flash of memory comes up in my head when I walk in the woods. The woods can be a magical place and is a place that will always be special to me. That hasn’t always been the case. I recall a time when my family was camping in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and my father decided to take us on “an adventure.” Something like the adventures we have every night after dinner with Karda, but without the magical “dragon-dile-roo.”
As we turn onto service roads in the woods in our blue early ‘80s Ford Van, it got darker and darker. Finally, we hit a stump or ditch or something, and we are stuck. No way of moving. The front right tire was hanging in the air with no way of getting any traction. The more my father tried to drive us out of the ditch, the more we wore away traction. So, we all get out of the van, and probably as a joke, my father mentions wild bears being out here. Now I am scared out of my wits, and in the state of mind I am in, I expect to see Karda swoop down and pick us all up, put us into his pouch and lead us back to the safe campground. Of course that didn’t happen. (Or did it? Who was Karda?)
My father took lead and told us all to gather rocks and logs to put under the tire to gain traction. Of course! That makes sense. And after about half an hour, we were on our way back to the campground in our old pouch of a blue van. It’s funny to think how my father loves to wander in the woods. He just may have forgotten that he was wandering with six kids and a very understanding wife with him.
That’s another thing. The wandering in the woods has become a favorite pass time of mine. I’d like to think I gained that from my father. There have been several instances where I have caught myself day dreaming and walking with my dog in the woods behind my apartment. And I snap through another lightning memory of walking through the woods in the Smokey Mountain National Forest.
There was a waterfall up at the top of a pathway that went through the woods. My mother and father and little brother and I had driven up to the Gatlinburg area for a little break from the hustle and bustle of every day life. We all began walking together, but had separated a little bit. I seem to remember a bit of an argument I had with my father, and didn’t want to wander with him at this point.
My father and little brother forged ahead leaving my mother and I. There was a beautiful stream that the path followed, and I had a great idea. Why not just walk up the stream to the waterfall? I got down into the streambed and started my wandering up through the small rapids. Absentmindedly, I lost track of where my mother was who seemed particularly enthralled with taking pictures of the wild flowers around.
After fording the creek for over an hour, I became a bit concerned about my whereabouts. I hadn’t seen anyone in forty-five minutes, and thought I could be getting lost. No, couldn’t be. This creek will lead to the waterfall, I know it. Well, after another thirty minutes of walking the creek bed, I decided to just forage up the side of the mountain and reach the top of the falls.
I reached the top of the mountain to see that there were no falls, just trees, and other mountains all around me. I half-heartedly yelled for help. Knowing my father was already a little pissed at me, I decided better of it, and tried the road I’d already taken. I made my way back to the creek bed, and rushed my way back to a place where the path had met the creek. I ran up the mountain to the falls, not making it all the way. After over two hours of separation from my parents, I’m sure they made their way back down the path to look for me.
Good thing I was in shape. I sprinted down the path to the car. There they were, frantic that they had lost their son in the Appalachian Mountains. Whatever it was we argued about, it was forgotten. I’d like to think my father realized that I was very much like him in my wanderings.
I can always close my eyes and see him wandering, thinking, observing things. I see him on a beach with my older brother. Two men walking, one wise in his years, one trying to get there. As they walk, the older holds his hand out and presents a small gift, a token of gratitude to the younger man. A talisman for being the oldest in the great family. For showing care and understanding to his younger siblings and to his mother and father. I see them walking, not hearing what they are saying. The waves gently roll upon their feet, and I’m sure the seawater is mixed with extra drops of tears from the two men. The conversation would make women weep, make old men proud, and make little boys strive to be one of these two men.
Lightning memories. Those times when your past comes back at you in a sudden flash. Times when you can look at a picture, and actually imagine and feel what is going on at the instant the shutter snaps.
I see myself as a reflection of my father. Not a perfect duplicate, but similar in oh so many ways. I’d like to think that he has passed so much onto me, and I will be able to pass along to my son the very same things. I think that is how we progress in society. The passing along of things from fathers to sons, from mothers to daughters, and from brothers to sisters. There is an uncanny way of how we can keep the good and throw out the bad. It may not always happen in a flash, we do have our bad habits and ways of doing things. But I think if we pay attention to our lightning flashes, we can move on….
*********
What can I say about my father? So much to say, so little way of expressing my feelings toward him. Going through a little lightning memory trip may help.
Every evening after dinner, I remember the stories. It seems like hundreds of stories, some true, some doctored, and some just plain made up. But after a big dinner, it didn’t matter. We didn’t need a TV; we needed the pleasant story telling of my father to jump-start our imaginations.
Karda was the topic of many of the stories. I don’t remember quite what Karda was. I believe he was a hybrid of magical flying dragon, crocodile and kangaroo all wrapped up into one. Karda would take us kids on heroic journeys in far lands of ‘never-never land.’ I always had thought of Karda as my guardian angel in these adventures. I’d dream of him being a wise all-knowing being. To me, Karda was like the Lion in the C.S. Lewis story The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. Whenever we were in trouble during the adventurous stories, Karda would always come and save the day and if we were lucky, maybe bring us to a place where we could eat our candies and deserts all the time!
That flash of memory comes up in my head when I walk in the woods. The woods can be a magical place and is a place that will always be special to me. That hasn’t always been the case. I recall a time when my family was camping in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, and my father decided to take us on “an adventure.” Something like the adventures we have every night after dinner with Karda, but without the magical “dragon-dile-roo.”
As we turn onto service roads in the woods in our blue early ‘80s Ford Van, it got darker and darker. Finally, we hit a stump or ditch or something, and we are stuck. No way of moving. The front right tire was hanging in the air with no way of getting any traction. The more my father tried to drive us out of the ditch, the more we wore away traction. So, we all get out of the van, and probably as a joke, my father mentions wild bears being out here. Now I am scared out of my wits, and in the state of mind I am in, I expect to see Karda swoop down and pick us all up, put us into his pouch and lead us back to the safe campground. Of course that didn’t happen. (Or did it? Who was Karda?)
My father took lead and told us all to gather rocks and logs to put under the tire to gain traction. Of course! That makes sense. And after about half an hour, we were on our way back to the campground in our old pouch of a blue van. It’s funny to think how my father loves to wander in the woods. He just may have forgotten that he was wandering with six kids and a very understanding wife with him.
That’s another thing. The wandering in the woods has become a favorite pass time of mine. I’d like to think I gained that from my father. There have been several instances where I have caught myself day dreaming and walking with my dog in the woods behind my apartment. And I snap through another lightning memory of walking through the woods in the Smokey Mountain National Forest.
There was a waterfall up at the top of a pathway that went through the woods. My mother and father and little brother and I had driven up to the Gatlinburg area for a little break from the hustle and bustle of every day life. We all began walking together, but had separated a little bit. I seem to remember a bit of an argument I had with my father, and didn’t want to wander with him at this point.
My father and little brother forged ahead leaving my mother and I. There was a beautiful stream that the path followed, and I had a great idea. Why not just walk up the stream to the waterfall? I got down into the streambed and started my wandering up through the small rapids. Absentmindedly, I lost track of where my mother was who seemed particularly enthralled with taking pictures of the wild flowers around.
After fording the creek for over an hour, I became a bit concerned about my whereabouts. I hadn’t seen anyone in forty-five minutes, and thought I could be getting lost. No, couldn’t be. This creek will lead to the waterfall, I know it. Well, after another thirty minutes of walking the creek bed, I decided to just forage up the side of the mountain and reach the top of the falls.
I reached the top of the mountain to see that there were no falls, just trees, and other mountains all around me. I half-heartedly yelled for help. Knowing my father was already a little pissed at me, I decided better of it, and tried the road I’d already taken. I made my way back to the creek bed, and rushed my way back to a place where the path had met the creek. I ran up the mountain to the falls, not making it all the way. After over two hours of separation from my parents, I’m sure they made their way back down the path to look for me.
Good thing I was in shape. I sprinted down the path to the car. There they were, frantic that they had lost their son in the Appalachian Mountains. Whatever it was we argued about, it was forgotten. I’d like to think my father realized that I was very much like him in my wanderings.
I can always close my eyes and see him wandering, thinking, observing things. I see him on a beach with my older brother. Two men walking, one wise in his years, one trying to get there. As they walk, the older holds his hand out and presents a small gift, a token of gratitude to the younger man. A talisman for being the oldest in the great family. For showing care and understanding to his younger siblings and to his mother and father. I see them walking, not hearing what they are saying. The waves gently roll upon their feet, and I’m sure the seawater is mixed with extra drops of tears from the two men. The conversation would make women weep, make old men proud, and make little boys strive to be one of these two men.
Lightning memories. Those times when your past comes back at you in a sudden flash. Times when you can look at a picture, and actually imagine and feel what is going on at the instant the shutter snaps.
I see myself as a reflection of my father. Not a perfect duplicate, but similar in oh so many ways. I’d like to think that he has passed so much onto me, and I will be able to pass along to my son the very same things. I think that is how we progress in society. The passing along of things from fathers to sons, from mothers to daughters, and from brothers to sisters. There is an uncanny way of how we can keep the good and throw out the bad. It may not always happen in a flash, we do have our bad habits and ways of doing things. But I think if we pay attention to our lightning flashes, we can move on….
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Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Lightning Memories
Sitting at home on a late Sunday afternoon, a boy was fixed at the commercial that came on the television. On the commercial was family sitting around their kitchen table. The brother and sister looked at each other and sighed, and the mother looked discouraged. The father took all of this in, and was struck with an idea. The picture changed from the family’s home to a roller coaster ride, the kids having huge grins on their faces. The last caption was read by a deep-outside voice, “Are you a Great American Dad?” The commercial was for Six Flags over Great America in Illinois.
The boy who sat watching the commercial was determined. He had to go to Great America. He had heard so much about it from his friends, and the commercial told it all, if his dad was a Great American Dad, they’d definitely go. Bingo, he was in!
“So, is daddy a Great American Dad?”
Immediately and with no hesitation, the boy’s mother replied, “He absolutely is!” For a moment, a very, very brief moment, joy struck the young boys heart. ‘Yes!’ he thought. Then, his brain caught up with him and the tone in his mother’s voice indicated there was an addition to the revelation she told him. “And he DOES NOT need to take you kids to Great America to be a great Dad!” What a dedicated and strong woman, mother, wife, companion and friend she was.
Oh, how the boy will remember what a Great American Dad is. He didn’t know why then, but after over fifteen years to dwell upon it, he does now.
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I haven’t thought about that story in a long time. It seems that as the older you get the dimmer memories fade. Every once in a while, like lightning striking, flashes of brilliant thoughts reappear in a mind’s eye. These are the ideas that should be written down; these are the memories that a father passes on to his son, a grandfather his grandson.
The Great American Story. It could start anywhere, because like life, it is a circular pattern. There is no ending, no beginning. There is just a continuance of lightning memories. I am proud to say my lightning memories are heavily concentrated with the subject of my family. And the parents are the pinnacle to my family. Mother and father, king and queen, the tops, however you want to state it.
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