Thanks for the Memories

First, I’ve decided to write about something more upbeat this month. It occurred to me that my last few blogs have been focused on topics that are probably considered “heavy”.

Since today is my birthday, I’ve decided to write about memories. Memories are personal by nature. but, if we share them, they often trigger the telling of similar memories by others. Reminiscing is one of those cool things we often do as humans. Memories can be happy; or they may be sad or even unpleasant. I always try to focus on the happy memories, and since I’m 76 this year, I have truckloads of them.

The memories of my youth are predominantly pleasant. I can recall things when I was so young that my mother told me she couldn’t believe that I could remember anything that far back. But when I described them, she had to admit that these things did happen.

Figuring out how to open the floor-level kitchen cabinets and drag out pots and pans is my very earliest memory. I don’t recall why I felt so compelled to do this, but I must have considered it a fascinating activity, because I remember doing it often. My mother eventually found it necessary to install childproof latches on the cupboard doors. She told me that I would have only been around one year old at that time.

I remember the day my newborn baby brother, Alan, came home. He’s three years younger than me, so I would have been three years old. I watched with great interest as my mother put him in a bassinet, preparing to change his diaper. Although too small to be able to see my brother up there inside that contraption, I knew he was in there. while my mother removed Alan’s diaper, my grandma busied herself doing something or other at the opposite end of the bassinet - with her back turned. As my mother bent over to place the soiled diaper in a pail, I witnessed an impressive stream of liquid shoot up out of the bassinet and onto my grandma’s back. Grandma screamed in shock; her hands flew in the air with surprised shock. My mother turned around in time to witness part of the spectacle.

A few moments of chaos followed as my mother rushed to Grandma’s rescue with a clean, dry diaper. Mother began to laugh, and then my Grandma started laughing as well. I remember laughing my ass off. It still might be the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s a great memory.

I have lots of good memories of growing up in the farm country of Central Ohio. In those days, we made up our own games and enjoyed doing relatively simple things that I suppose kids today would consider “lame”. All we needed was a crazy idea and off we’d go, spending an entire day occupied with trying to make it happen. Climbing trees and roaming the woods in back or our place often provided many hours of fun.

Living in the country, there weren’t many neighbors or neighborhood kids to play with, but we did have our little gang. I remember making forts, which sometimes involved digging holes in the ground. This usually resulted in us getting in trouble. I also recall starting a couple of zoos. In addition to a fine collection of pets and borrowed barnyard animals, we would find and capture whatever wildlife happened to have the misfortune to cross our path. When all was ready, we would try to get the parents to pay 5 cents to come visit the zoo. Attendance was usually light.

Whenever we could get our hands on a quarter, or even a dime, my friend, Frank, and I would ride our bikes to the Dixon Road Store to spend the newfound treasure. Quantity always overrode quality in selecting the treats. A quarter in those days would get you three candy bars and a soft drink. If you bought an RC Cola, you got 16 ounces of sugary nectar, rather than the 12 measly ounces offered by the competition.

When we returned, the booty would be shared with the gang, the goods meticulously divided according to one’s rank in the pecking order. This was a solemn ritual and a high point in our young lives. It went without saying that, as the oldest, I justified giving myself a bonus share. The store was, after all, nearly two miles away on a gravel road. Oh, by the way, Frank and his family were recent immigrants from Italy, so he didn’t speak much English for the first couple of years. I admit this put him at a disadvantage for disputing my distribution logic.

I can vividly recall the adventurous memories of our family moving from Ohio to New Mexico. Dad bought us all cowboy boots, which was a big deal, and we took weekend trips to places all over the state. New Mexico is about as different from Ohio as it gets. While we were out there, I attended the Catholic seminary in Santa Fe, but that’s more than a memory – that’s another whole story!

Then there are the memories from Lincoln High School in Gahanna, Ohio. I was a bona fide geek in those days. I wanted to be on a sports team, any team, but I was uncoordinated, so no dice. However, I did work on the staff of the school’s newspaper, The Lion’s Roar. I think I might have been the only guy – the thorn among the roses. Looking back, I guess that should have been a pretty good memory, except girls weren’t really interested in me in those days. But it was a good time to be alive.