All Memories Aren't the Same

My extended family got together last week for a memorial service for my mom. As usual, the room was full of relatives I hadn’t seen for decades, some I have never met, and others that I didn’t even know of. Of course, we reminisced, grieved together, and caught up on years of our lives, but then, that’s what one tends to do at such times. We planned a family reunion that all of us knew would never happen, and we all agreed that only funerals bring most families together these days. There are just too many weddings, births and graduations once the family gets older and dispersed. I did learn something, though. Even though some of us shared experiences growing up, our memories don’t always match very well, and even when they do, different versions have been passed down to the next generation. In fact, sometimes, no version at all has been passed. Here’s a case in point. One of my first cousins, some 4 years my junior, teamed up with my own brother and another first cousin, all of whom were within a year of each other, to swipe some honey from my Uncle Teddy’s beehive. They were all about 5 at the time. Their prank was discovered when my brother showed up at my grandparents front porch with a handful of honeycomb, the honey dripping off his arm and elbow. His two partners in crime trailed along as though it were something that happened every day. To say it caused a riot would be an understatement. The upshot was that three little boys were in trouble, and my uncle set out to put the hive box, which they had tipped over, back upright. When my aunt got him to the hospital, the emergency room crew pulled over 100 stingers out of his forehead alone. He was just lucky the hospital was only 5 miles away. My kids all knew the story – none of my cousin’s sons had ever heard it. The other example is different, but only slightly. I managed to get lost in a swamp for an entire day when I was 5 years old. My uncle Tommy found me as night was setting in, and carried me on his shoulders several miles back to my grandparents’ house. He rescued me, and all of his children knew it. What he “neglected” to tell them, though, was that he was the one who helped me get lost to begin with. Selective memory strikes. Needless to say, I filled in the gaps with his children, much to Tommy’s chagrin.

Daffodils

It's been a short 44 years since I graduated from high school, and I've probably either forgotten or replaced most of the things I learned there. Now, though, it seems that some of the old "files" I created then have been dragged out of storage and put back into play. Some of them are more welcome than others, but then, isn't that the way life is? Maybe that's what is meant by entering one's second childhood. I hope I don't digress any further than high school. I mean, my formative years were as good as they could be, even approaching idyllic, but I'd rather remember them with a half century of filters in play than go back and re-live them. But sometimes things long buried come back with clarity, and today was one of those times. The daffodils are in full bloom here, and I've been out taking pictures of them all morning, for no reason other than I couldn't help myself. And then I surprised some of our chickens, and countless birds clustering around the bird feeders for their breakfast by reciting the entire poem by William Wordsworth (not really one of my favorite poets), complete with arm waving oratory. Me, a grown man! Was it Mrs. W.W. Watkins, Mrs. Carmen Haynes, or - crazy as it may seem - Mrs. Blanche Mayfield that made all of us stand in front of the class and stumble through that poem? Whichever, the two of them who have passed on I thank, and the one still correcting my postings I thank, too. I'm not going to post the entire poem here, but do this: If you want to smile and tear up a little, go read it. If you have children or grandchildren, read it to them. If you just need a pick-me-up on a beautiful spring day, read it twice. If you are completely insane, ask me and I'll record it and send it to you to listen to - but your tears will probably be from sympathy for a man who's gone all the way around the bend. Read it. It's more than worth it. In the meantime, "My heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils."

Breathe Deeply

Sometimes I am reminded how naïve I can be, and how sometimes I just can't see the forest. Only after I got well into my 7th decade I realized something most people probably put together early on. You see, I stupidly smoked cigarettes for 11 years of my life, until I finally caught on that I was being not only dumb, but that I was shortening my life and making those around me smell as bad as I smelled. So I quit. But one thing about smoking stayed with me - any time a smoker gets upset, or something bad happens to them, they immediately light up, take deep drags, pull the smoke all the way into the lungs, and blow it all out. That has a calming effect, and it's universal for smokers. I did it, too. Then all of a sudden we were expecting a baby, and I dutifully attended natural childbirth classes. I learned the right way to relax muscles, and became a breathing coach. Guess what? Deep, cleansing breaths and long, slow exhalations are the best way to remain calm and as relaxed as is possible between contractions. You coach the expectant mother to pull in air all the way to the bottom of her lungs, and then slowly blow it all out. But I didn't get it. I didn't put the two together. Fast forward through breaking the cigarette habit - not nearly as difficult as I thought it would be - and more children, and I still didn't get it. Then, my present wife (yes, I have had more than one) started practicing yoga. And she brought it home to me, in a myriad of poses, conversations, and readings. And guess what, again? The word "pranayama" cropped up. I asked her for a definition, and she said it means, essentially, fresh breath. And then she demonstrated by taking deep breaths, all the way to the bottom of her lungs, and blowing it out slowly. Finally, the light bulb in my brain clicked on. It wasn't the cigarette, or the time between contractions, it was, simply, calming down by concentrating on controlling the flight or fight impulse. Does that sound like a major breakthrough to you? Not to me, either. But as I said earlier, some things come slowly to me. Those guys a few centuries ago in India figured it out. Duh.