I spend a fair amount of time lost in memories. Actually, that isn’t correct. The term “lost in memories” implies one is wandering aimlessly or gazing wistfully. My mind works in images. People, events, scenery trigger images from the past in my head. Much of the time I feel free to wander those paths.
Where I lived as a young kid in Burlington, Vt., was a child’s dream setting. A dead-end street surrounded by woods on two sides created endless possibilities for adventure. Across the street was a large piece of land that everyone on our short block “owned” and maintained. It was a large field that the dads kept mowed.
Clumps of rhubarb and lilacs abounded one side and a dense arborvitae hedge the other side. Woods stood guard on one end and the other opened into a sweeping backyard. It was our ground, our field of battle. And battle we did.
Endless games of kickball and baseball were conducted with the zeal of unfettered childhood. Makeshift items were used as bases, objects like my tiny bicycle which was always second base. We avoided sliding into second as much as possible but sometimes it was merited. The victim could look forward to sporting the badge of bravery, a knee covered with mercurochrome.
Insects are buzzing, the sun is pounding down. All is quiet. Two little kids observe from a sturdy limb in a nearby tree. Their world is hot and dusty, and empty. There is no play in the field on this day. They’re trying to fathom the day’s events. Most of the adults are at a funeral. The image of a young woman, face frozen in anguish, the cords of her neck stretched in grief flutters in my memory. She is the sister of a young playmate. We sit in the tree looking out at our world and try to make sense of what it means that her young husband has died in a car accident.
Our understanding would be years in coming. On that day we knew things would never be the same for some people. We didn’t have the depth to fully comprehend the impact. Our beloved playground held us in its embrace as we puzzled through our thoughts.
Our confusion is still fresh in my memory. As kids do, one of my memories is of endless platters of sandwiches being served that day. It was like I’d gone to sandwich heaven. We kids munched and raced along the street, chasing one another for the mere thrill of the chase. One of the older neighbors spoke to us and we quieted ourselves, still not comprehending the somber tone but respecting our elder’s wishes. Because someone had gone to Heaven, for real.
Stories Are For Eternity 