My Recollections, Our Memories

“Mom and I went to the Mennonite restaurant to eat, and there was a hearse parked right in front of it,” I said to my brother, Donnie. I had stopped by the nursing home to visit him while I was in town. “I couldn’t help but wonder if a coffin was in the back—in this sweltering heat! Mom said, ‘Even hearse drivers have to eat.’” I told Donnie about my covert glance into the hearse, and we shared a laugh about my concern.

Donnie’s speech is slurred from strokes, and I have to listen closely to hear what he has to say. The hearse story reminded him of a memory. “Do you remember when Butch Gardner bought that old hearse? He thought he was really going to get the girls to go out with him, but none of them would ride in the hearse.”

I laughed at the memory of the hearse. “That wasn’t Butch that owned that hearse,” I said, delving into my own memory. “It was a guy named Bruce—he was Claude and Leroy’s cousin. He was a good-looking guy, and I did go out with him in the hearse. Mom and dad disagreed on whether I could go or not, but they finally let me. The date turned out to be the two of us and a whole carload of kids in the back.”

“Yeah, I remember riding in the back,” Donnie said. “I thought it was Butch.”

“Remember, we went to a creek and went swimming. That was my ‘date’ in the hearse.”

“I think that was our club that went to the creek in the hearse,” Donnie said.

“I believe it was too,” I said. A big group of us country kids formed a club and went on different activities together. Butch was in that club, so that’s probably why Donnie thought the hearse belonged to him.

“Do you remember the skating party?” I asked. “That was the second time I ever saw Jim. I told Jim our club was going to be at the skating rink and he met us there. He wore a shirt with the sleeves ripped off.”

Donnie nodded and I knew that he too was remembering Jim. After Jim and I greeted each other, he went to get his skates. I sat on a bench next to Claude to lace up my skates. “Is that guy bothering you?” Claude asked. I’m sure he thought Jim was some kind of local punk. “If he is, just say the word and I’ll straighten him out!”

I reassured Claude that I knew Jim and had invited him to the skating party. I was touched since Claude was a mild mannered kid and Jim was a former Golden Gloves boxer.

Donnie and I laughed over our shared memories.

In a serious moment, Donnie said, “I think I know more people that have died that I know who are alive.”

“I know what you mean,” I said. The memories I had just shared about Claude and Jim, once a shared memory between the three of us, is now mine alone. Both of them are gone.

I kissed Donnie on the cheek, feeling good about our visit. Some days he is depressed or upset, but today we had found a happy place in our shared memories.

Our visit made me remember how vivid Jim’s memories were before dementia erased them. Before dementia, little slices of life lived in Jim’s memories long after I had forgotten them. I thought about how sad it was when our memories were gone, and how lonely I felt when Jim couldn’t remember our special times together.

Our memories are flawed because we each see life from an individualized perspective. Certain moments in life are etched into our brains with clarity, while others are fuzzy and out of focus. The older we get, the more memories become so buried that we may never retrieve them again.

Memories may be distorted by time or disease, but if we voice our recollections, those reminiscences are a way to reconnect to a shared past. After stories are erased from our brains, they can linger forever in our hearts.

Copyright © July 2011 L.S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Mushrooms in the Ozarks

Those of us living in the Show Me state tend to get excited about tangible things, which most definitely include morel mushrooms. Due to the heavy rain this year, morels are being found in record numbers. My sister-in-law has been combing the woods and shared her abundant supply with me.

I grew up in the heart of the Ozarks where mushroom hunting should qualify as a sport. During my years of hunting, I’ve been chased by bulls, came within a hairs’ breath of stepping on a copperhead, came eyeball-to-eyeball with a snake hanging out of a tree, jumped creeks, balanced on a log to cross a ravine, slid down embankments—just to mention a smattering of the dangers involved. Rather than suffering from post traumatic stress disorder because of my innumerable misadventures, I think of mushroom hunting with fondness.

At mushroom time, the woods come alive. Dogwood, redbud, and wildflowers burst into bloom. Mayflowers open their umbrellas, birds chirp, twitter, whistle and squawk, squirrels chatter and dance precariously on limbs, the scent of wild onions and garlic fill the air. There’s something refreshing about carrying a walking stick and pushing aside nature’s ground cover to find a perfect morel poking up through the leaves.

It is best to hunt with a partner so that when you wander into dangerous situations, someone has your back. I was always confident hunting with Jim and knew he would see that nothing would harm me. I remember one year Jim found a patch of mushrooms and didn’t pick any of them. He led me to them and let me “find” them. If you aren’t a mushroom hunter, you don’t realize how symbolic that is of true love.

You notice I didn’t say anything about hunting mushrooms this year. For all my fond memories, I haven’t braved the snakes and ticks to find those little darlings. It’s something I long to do, but haven’t been motivated to do. In life, we constantly balance memories against reality. The sun is shining today, and we had more rain yesterday. Wait—is that the siren song of a great spring mushroom hunting day I hear outside my patio doors?

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