Wednesday October 27, 2004 – Chasing Memories

Wednesday October 27, 2004 – Chasing Memories

My wife “I” has begun exchanging e-mail with childhood friends from Scotland through a UK-based website that helps lost classmates have the equivalent of a reunion on-line, which is pretty much what “I” has been engaged in. Hearing about her e-mail exchanges, I feel like the spouse bought along to a reunion, enjoying the sight of so many adults acting like kids again.

It happens on-line as well. “I” explains to me that she downloaded a picture of one of the alums that was a few years younger. Though she knew the younger girl and saw her clearly in her mind, the picture of the much older woman looking out from the picture was as foreign to “I” as a complete stranger. Memories tend to defy the passage of time, almost become argumentative about it.

“I” explains that in another e-mail exchange a boy also younger than “I” decided to list the names of all the families on the block where they lived in Carmyle—something “I” had planned to do this very evening. Let’s call “I”’s friend “B”. He had been a pal of “I”’s younger brother and described at length in his e-mail funny moments the two young boys shared all those many years ago.

It was a true case of Kismet for “I” and her two renewed acquaintances to reunite. All had found the UK site within a couple of days of one another and each had decided to register and write a bit about themselves in the “description” that the site provided free. To produce a revenue stream, the site charges to allow members to contact one another, seven British Pounds. Needless to say, the site made a few pounds on this lot.

“I”’s two new mates are both living in Canada. “B”’s siblings all decided to leave Scotland, a brother and sister both reside in South Africa, though his 90-odd year old mother is still alive and enjoying her life, not far from the neighborhood. “I” remembered his mother as she gave “I” a pair of warm bed-socks for keeping warm when “I” was leaving for New York City, after leaving school and turning 18.

“I” wondered aloud why none of her classmates still living in Scotland hadn’t taken fingers to keyboard and joined in the nostalgia. I suspect for them the neighborhood is not that far away, probably a place they drive by or walk past ever now and again. The neighborhood, though changed dramatically as one generation has given way to the next, has not changed as noticeable for those who remained behind since it has evolved before their eyes. Unlike ex-patriots such as “I” and her Canadians, who still remember it those many years ago, unchanged, idyllic, innocent, and so very young.

A couple of years ago, a close friend of mine in my teen years, decided to track me down. I was relatively easy to find. My parents still live in the same house we’ve lived in when my friend and I were younger. He lived four or five house up the same street from us on the other side of the road. Instead of calling information and asking for my parents phone number—it’s listed in the phone book, he purchased a compact disk with phone numbers from all over the country.

He found the listing for my folks and called them and chatted them up for a bit. He asked them for my address and phone number and soon enough I received a letter from him, in which he brought me up to date on his life since we parted decades earlier. His life had carried him to Washington where he now lived surrounded by children and grandchildren. He said he would call and we could catch up over the phone.

About a week later I get a call from him and we talked for a while. I caught him up on what had happened in the Texas neighborhood where we both grew up. I had left after he and his family had moved to California and he never had cause to return. He was surprised to learn of the kids we grew up with and what had become of their lives.

After about an hour on the phone we had pretty much covered what we still had in common. The path I took in life differed greatly from his, though I must admit he was a great influence on my younger self. We were now older men with vastly different views of the world and very little in common to share except the past.

I suspect “I” was experiencing many of those same feelings. How transitory is life. For one moment you’re sitting in a fine restaurant eating an incredible meal or you’re experiencing a moment of wonderful bliss listening to a fine piece of music and just as quickly the meal is over, the last bars of music have been played and those precious moments are suddenly part of the past. Life does not permit you the luxury of dwelling at all on any moment though the sad moments seem to last far too long while the happy ones seem so fleeting and elusive.

If there were only a way to record a great meal the way you can bootleg copy a moment of musical magic.