March 25, 2018 - Old Records

There once was a special drawer in an old bureau in every house in America, and most likely in every house in many other countries as well.  This drawer was important and was different from other drawers.  Other drawers might contain linens or china or practical gadgets, but the special drawer was set aside for a special purpose.  It contained all the important family papers, policies, receipts, and other things.  There might be old, yellowed newspaper articles falling half apart from age.  There might be old, frayed photos of long-dead relatives.  There might be secret documents of old trysts or settled arguments.

Because, you see, this was the memory drawer of the family.  Anything that was important or worth preserving was kept in this drawer.  Also, anything of a timely nature was kept there, anything that might need a rapid response or action.  This was the accounting center of the family, and as the years went on, the accounts added up and up, and the lives of the individuals were recorded . . . from birth to marriage, to wars, to pride or shame, to death.  Here was the individual family’s Hall of Records.

Receipts of life.

It was a very important drawer.  Children were not allowed to open this drawer because the documents it contained were too essential to the wellbeing of the family and could not be treated lightly.  Whenever the drawer was opened, children would crowd around to see what was inside, pretending all along as if they had not noticed it was open.  How they longed to open it themselves!  But they never dared because their hides would be tanned for sure.

It took on a certain scent, the old drawer did.  It was the same scent you can still find in old libraries and old bookstores.  Not the new buildings—they are too sterile—but the old ones.  There is where you can still find the scent.  It was an aroma of the generations of life, and when that drawer was opened, all of the old ghosts would step out and walk around the room once again.  If you were clever and sensitive, you could see them as they passed by, lightly touching an old piece of china or pottery here and there in remembrance.

There is still an old drawer in an old bureau in my house.  It contains many years of memories and accountings.  Many of the documents are my own, but there is a special spot with documents that belong to others.  Some of the people I knew and some I did not.  They are all dead now, but I still keep their papers.  I find them at old estate sales and yard sales and auctions here and there.  No one wants them, so I buy them up and I store their memories in the old drawer.

Occasionally I will look through the papers and try to build an image in my mind of who these people were.  Some people might think I am crazy for doing such a thing, but I cannot help wanting to know more about these long lost people.  When a young man buys several acres of land at the age of 24, I want to know who he was and what he was thinking.  It seems to me he was much cleverer than most 24-year-olds today.  Being 24 years old 150 years ago was not the same as being 24 years old today, it would seem.  I cannot help but get a tear in my eye when I wonder about these people.

You will notice a not-so-old record book in the middle of the old documents in the photo.  That is my current record book.  In it I keep a record of all purchases made and all income received.  I realize that I could do this on a computer.  In fact, I tried to do just that.  When I entered a purchase in my accounting program, I would hear a little “cha-ching!” sound, but it just was not the same.  So I abandoned the computer record system.  It was too cold and glaring for me.  I went back to paper.  That was quite some time ago, and I have decided I will stick with paper until I die.

It takes a little longer to keep records on paper.  I refuse to use a calculator, so all sums must be done by hand.  It does not feel right to use a calculator and then write a number down in the book.  It is one or the other, I say, so I chose a direction and I am sticking with it.  In any event, it can be very helpful to see where the funds are coming from and where they are going.  From year to year I am able to adjust my purchases to meet particular goals.  Sometimes those goals involve saving money, but not always.  Sometimes they just involve being watchful and thoughtful.  Sometimes they help me make better choices or ride out storms.

A drawer full of memories and plans and accounts is different from a computer or a disk or a “memory stick” filled with the same.  One is tangible and real.  You can touch it and smell it, and it creates a real feeling of the past and a connection and gratitude to former generations.  The other is thousands of pixels on a black mirror.  The pixels form a colorful image, but it is not real.  Underneath that image there is only a black mirror, and in it, your face is reflected back to you, searching aimlessly for something you will never find.

So if you do not have an old drawer in an old bureau, I suggest you get one.  If you have to start with an old cardboard box, then so be it.  When you get your bureau, you can transfer your valuables to the special drawer.  Keep a record of your life, even if you are going through hard times—especially if you are going through hard times, because hard times teach us the best lessons, and having a record of those lessons is priceless.  Keep your accounts, keep a journal, keep your important old photos and old newspaper clippings and old documents.  Even new documents become old at some point.

Yes, eventually the paper will dissolve and the old photos will turn to dust and the memories will disappear.  Yet they seem to last much longer than a life kept digitally on a little piece of plastic that can be stepped on and destroyed in a moment or thrown out when it is no longer convenient or stylish.  A whole life gone . . . just like that.  Your memories are worth more than that.  Your memories are something that should be kept in an old drawer and taken out once in a while and held in your hands.  Then you will know they are real, and a real life is something to be proud of, however humble it may be.

March 19, 2018 - Twilight

An old man walks down a cold and wintry road at twilight and remarks to himself how everything looks black and white with no color at all.  He knows that dusk has a way of playing with colors, watering them down until they melt away into a sea of grey as if they had never been.  And now that everything is grey, who’s to say that there ever really was any color anyway?  But it doesn’t matter.  He knows it doesn’t matter.

There are enough memories in his head to fill the ocean, and he reflects upon them as he walks.  This country road used to be filled with the comings and goings of many country people.  He remembers the one-room schoolhouse he attended, long since removed and placed in a city area as a “museum.”  Visitors from away come to see the old wooden building where he learned to read and write and do his sums.  He can still see the children running in and out of the school, playing “kick the can” at lunchbreak.

Twilight.

There were many horses going up and down the road with many styles of wagons and buggies, and there were cars and farm trucks, too.  They were newer and much louder, and the horses didn’t like them at all.  Now those vehicles are old and they’re also in museums.  A modern car or truck will still race by often enough, and he must be careful on the road, especially in the twilight, lost in thought as he is, just another grey form in a grey world.

There were farms, small family farms, the kind that fed just a handful of families.  In the spring, there was tilling and the smell of winter’s manure spread upon the fields.  And there was growing and sunshine and abundance.  The sun was warmer in those days, golden and beautiful, and from sunup to sundown his day was filled with work in the fields, from childhood long into his adult years. 

Then there was the work of harvesting and preserving and preparing the fields for winter's sleep.  All the little farm stands on the side of the road bulged with produce.  City people would come by and purchase fresh fruits and vegetables, and there was laughter and smiling and abundance.  There was always a harvest dance after all the hard work, and then came the pig slaughter and the deer hunting.  Yes, they were busy, always busy.

In the winter the farm buildings were repaired, fences were fixed and expanded, and animals were cared for.  A large ice rink was set up in a lower field at a friend’s farm, and everyone would go to ice skate and have outdoor winter parties by the side of the rink, with plenty of small fires to warm frozen hands and toes.  And everyone knew everyone else.  It was a colorful community.

Now the people are distant.  The cars and trucks race by at breakneck speed, never stopping to say hello or wave.  But he doesn’t recognize the faces anyway, so perhaps it’s just as well.  There are still a few tiny family farms, and those people he knows but doesn’t see often.  There are no more harvest dances.  That’s the problem, he thinks to himself, there are no more harvest dances.  That was where anything worth knowing about happened.  Now there are mainly scattered homes, nicely kept, where everyman keeps to himself behind closed doors.

Life is black and white every day now, he remarks to himself, not just at twilight.  There is right and there is wrong and there is everyone’s version of both.  And not one version is like unto another’s.  There are lines drawn everywhere.  Some of the imaginary ones are stronger than the real ones.  But mostly, there’s the just the lack of color, the lack of life, the lack of harvest dances with fiddles playing and sweet cakes to eat and pretty girls everywhere.

He looks at the sky.  Soon it will be nighttime.  And he is ready for it.

March 5, 2018 - Recede

Now the frozen steel hands that had a death grip on all of life begin to crack, slowly and imperceptibly at first.  The bands of cold, hard steel loosen, and the tears of the Earth well up and fill every impression in the woods.  The mists come more frequently now, too, and the army of the Lord of Winter disappears within, slowly escaping between the worlds, waiting for its chance to slip away.  Visible retreat is not an option.

The slow retreat.

The Banshees come again, washing their dirty shawls in the water, wailing in despair.  Even they had been frozen, immobile in the ice.  I ask, what good is a world that banishes even Death?  At least Death gives a hint of the Life that was, but in the frozen embrace of the Lord of Winter, that beauty was coveted and hidden away.  No more.  Now she cries on the shores.

A tiny pip of a bird can be heard in the forest as she searches for last year’s dead grass and carries it high into an old oak.  A great willing is felt, and it is time to change again.  The secret clock will soon strike the hour, passing over.