We sat in the pews of our small country church sanctuary a few Sundays ago, and before long our class was deep into a discussion about memories and how the prophet Isaiah reminded us that we were to “forget the former things,” that we are “not to dwell on the past.”
Our problem wasn’t that we wanted to argue about the validity of Scripture; we just didn’t have a whole lot of agreement as to what Isaiah actually meant when he relayed his boss’s message to us. After all, a few chapters later, the Lord tells his people to “Remember this,” and to “fix it in mind.”
Our Sunday school teacher, Tim, who happens to be my wife’s cousin (just about everyone at the church is related in some way or another) used my storytelling as part of his object lesson for the morning. Without suggesting that I simply make things up as I write, he said that there’s no way that I can probably remember absolutely every detail I use.
I didn’t argue, but I believe that the vast majority of my trips to the past are pretty accurate. I can still place kids in the rows where they sat in Mrs. Milner’s fourth-grade classroom, and I can still recall the patch of woods that stood behind our home place like the back of my hand. I can remember the first pair of basketball shoes I ever owned, too…
I don’t think there’s anything wrong with allowing our minds to wander back in time every so often. I sure hope there isn’t, since I seem to be spending more and more of my free time in the cobwebbed rooms of my memory these days, for it’s not only Jimmy Stewart’s George Bailey who’s had a wonderful life.
Yet, there are black holes, bits and pieces of the past that I’ve allowed to slip away. Until I gabbed with my sister this past Christmas, I had forgotten how, years ago, we — my cousin, Renee, was often a willing accomplice — used to crawl through an eerie, crawdad-filled drainage pipe under the county line road. It was a good thing to get reacquainted with those hot summer days of the past, even as there was snow on the ground and we wore sweaters in the warmth of my brother’s living room some 45 years later.
I’ll admit that every once in a while, I may smooth over the occasional rough edge of a story with the concrete of truthful intentions, with fragments of past history as I think they happened. But even though I may not remember where I’ve left my car keys, and I often swear my son has moved my tools when he hasn’t, I seem to be able to remember things from my childhood, from days when it seemed that all I had to worry about was whether my mom had restocked our cereal supply, or if I could scrounge up enough old lumber to finish my tree house, or whether I’d get much traffic at the road-side vegetable stand that I shared with my grandpa during sweet corn and tomato season.
John Irving, who knows a whole lot more about the craft of writing than I ever hope to, says that our memory is “a monster; you forget — it doesn’t. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you — and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory,” Irving once said, “but it has you.”
He may be right, but I’ll take my memories, even the tough ones, even the painful and mean ones that seem to creep up on me from behind, because the good ones seem to far outnumber the bad anyway.
I am who I am because of the accumulated effect my past has had on me. I learned that an iron is hot after dragging one across my belly as a youngster trying to help my mother with chores, but it hurt only a fragment as much as watching her years later as she struggled to write with her right hand after a stroke had taken the use of her left one away, her beautiful, graceful penmanship with it.
No, our memory is more friend than foe. It may be an illogical thing, but it is a powerful force in our lives of the moment. Its fickleness astounds me because when I try to remember something — the name of a song, a television actor’s face, where I left the extra shoestrings — it fails me. Yet, just last week, the batting statistics for Carl Yazstremski’s Triple Crown season — 1967 — popped into my head as if programmed there like some Manchurian candidate’s clandestine instructions. It makes no sense…
A few weeks ago, a fourth-grader in whose class I sat to talk about writing, asked me what my “favorite memory” was. Without hesitating, I told him and his friends that I can still clearly see a night when I was 9 or 10, and the headlights of my dad’s pick-up truck bounced off the trees as he pulled behind our house after a day at work. He often handed me something as he walked through our back door — a nail or a nickel or a stone he’d picked up from some construction site — so I was always there to jump into those big freckled arms of his.
As I ran to him, he pulled a brand new baseball glove out from behind his back. Even then I was a sucker for the Red Sox, and even though it was a Gary Peters model, and he then played for the White Sox, it was the first glove I could call my own. Simply put, I thought my dad was the greatest man alive; to this day, I can still feel my hand sliding into that glove for the first time; I can smell its smell, and I can see the rusty brown of its long fingers and deep pocket.
Sometimes, late at night, when sleep has decided to take a walk and I lay in the darkness thinking about this and that and the other, I move the packing boxes of past years around in my head. Most of what I recall is good; some isn’t.
It’s true; my memory may own me. So be it.
Mike Lunsford can be reached at hickory913@aol.com, or by regular mail, c/o the Tribune-Star at P.O. Box 149, Terre Haute, IN 47808. Learn more about his book, “The Off Season: The Newspaper Stories of Mike Lunsford,” by going to his Web site at www.mikelunsford.com. He will be speaking Tuesday at the Paris Public Library. Read more about it at www.parispubliclibrary.org.
Mike Lunsford
The Off Season: Celebrating the power of memory
- Mike Lunsford
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Books open our eyes to that which we will never see
I got a letter last week from a friend, Sister Margaret Quinlan, who lives amidst the beauty of the St. Mary-of-the-Woods campus. Besides the email space and the time she invests in describing the flowers and trees and birds that she shares with her roomies out there, as well as her accounts of teaching and traveling, Margaret most often writes about books. She loves them, and she knows I do, too.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Hoping to master the art of taking a nap
I got away from work as early as I could one day last week. It was a cloudy day, filled with grayness and rain, and my head felt as if I had inhaled my pillow the night before. My throat suggested I’d swallowed a wood rasp, too, and my eyes felt as though I was looking through someone else’s glasses. Yet, I had work do, this column being on the list of chores.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Windy companion finally gives him the cold shoulder
The wind came to visit us this week. We live on the knob of a hill that overlooks a Raccoon Creek valley, and it is a breezy spot year-round, but this wind was the kind that ushers in a full-blown front from Canada, perhaps just to remind us that cold weather is going to be the boss around here for a while. No matter how surprising our mild winter has been so far, this kind of wind tells us not to expect many more warm days over the next few months.
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SIDELINES: Good for even a traditional Classic buff
Lights down, tree out, another year gone at the Classic.
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THE OFF SEASON: The more things change, the more they keep changing
I must have had at least a dozen people ask at my son’s wedding a few weeks ago whether I cried, or “how I was handling losing him.” I think they all knew just how tight I am with my two kids, and thought I must have come completely unglued when it finally hit me that he was on his own for good, that the rules had changed nearly as much in my life when he said ,“I do,” as they did for him.
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Lunsford signing new book at Brazil Coffee Grounds
Parke County writer Mike Lunsford will be signing his latest book, “A Place Near Home” (Shade Tree Press; $15) from 10:30 a.m. to 1 p.m. Saturday at Coffee Grounds, Bakery and Coffee Shop in Brazil.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: In the neighborhood with the ‘fantastic’ Mr. Fox
As we drove home late one night last week, my wife and I, both a bit drowsy and anxious for a warm bed and a long nap, were surprised to see a red fox as it darted across the road. He made his appearance in a flash — just a bit of nose and fur and bushy tail — as he jumped out of a ditch in front of our car and was caught in the glare of our headlights on his way to the relative safety of an apple orchard.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The lizard wore long johns, and other Halloween tales
We stocked our house with a supply of Halloween candy last week; Joanie and I stopped into the new dollar store in town and filled a grocery cart with Butterfingers and Baby Ruths and Three Musketeers bars. Every aromatic bit of it has been calling to me from the orange-and-black baskets we keep on a living room trunk ever since.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Here’s to the simple beauty of an untended garden…
I can hear a combine eating its way across a nearby cornfield as I write this on a Saturday evening. It is a sound that signals the end of one season and the beginning of anot
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The Off Season: Listening to Mozart is a ‘purr-fect’ way to relax
Regardless of what some people may believe, classical music fans are not snobs. They come from all walks of life, fall into all income brackets, and they’re not required to understand or analyze anything to which they’re listening; they just need to enjoy themselves.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Fall’s arrival heralded in ever-present fencerows
As much as I hate summer to leave us, I am happy that fall is just around the corner. It has been a bone-dry season, one in which I’ve watched my yard bake and crack like an old pie crust. My wife and I are still spending our evenings going about the business of watering flowers, standing with a dribbling hose in our hands, optimistically hoping that our drought will be broken because we’ve tempted the weather fates to do us one better and give us a good rain.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: The value of hard work goes well beyond a paycheck
Years ago, I used to drive into Rosedale to get my workday started with a big cup of black coffee. Every morning, Monday through Friday, until the town grocery store’s business dried up and blew away, you could have found me slipping through a back door — left unlocked for the early birds — of the old Red and White, 15 minutes before it opened for official business.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Life’s little conveniences actually can be quite annoying
I am aware that much of the language I use is outdated, stodgy, old-fashioned; I apologize.
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The Off Season: Another sad passing: One-time trendsetter can’t keep up
I wandered into the local mall bookstore the other day. My wife and I had come to town with a list of chores to do and things to buy, but whenever we venture anywhere near a place with book shelves and sales tables and racks of paperbacks, we’re attracted to the scent of ink and the sight of book covers like bees to clover .
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Overheated in Hobart and other vacation tales…
My family climbed into our van and headed to Michigan a few weeks ago, just as we do every other year or so, to stay on the great lake there, for we have come to love its cool breezes and blue water and lighthouses.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Silence is wonderful, as long as you don’t take it too far
I have visited this topic — how it is often only through inconvenience that we come to appreciate the comforts we have in life — before.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: His tolerance for insects ends with sawyer beetles
As I sloshed a can of water over a pot of red petunias a Sunday morning ago, I saw a pine sawyer beetle make its way slowly up the vinyl siding near my front door. I swatted it to the concrete, and smashed it with my shoe … with impunity, I might add.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Storm damage makes you appreciate home
My wife and I hadn’t been into town for a good while when we drove in from our place to visit her doctor and my favorite hardware store last week.
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Paying respect in more way than one way…
It has become a habit of mine on Mother’s Day to go to Rosedale Cemetery and lay a few irises on my mom’s grave.
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The Off Season: On the trail with Max the Mushroom Cat
The wet weather and a busy calendar have kept my wife and me from doing what we’ve really wanted to do for a while. Ever since the thermometer began to stay consistently above 40 and the grass started to green, we’ve wanted to get outside, get some sun on our arms, and get down to the wetlands to watch the geese make their landings with a flourish and a honk.
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THE OFF SEASON: So much to do; so little time…
My wife’s aunt, Martha Jean McCarthy, passed away earlier this month; she was 85 years old. Martha Jean was kind and generous and busy her entire life.
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MIKE LUNSFORD: A lesson plan for public schools
I am an advocate of public education; I pull no punches about that. I have taught in public schools for 32 years, and I think it is an inherently American institution.
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THE OFF SEASON: Craning to see elegance in flight
Just before midnight last night, spring officially slipped quietly into our back yards, but I doubt that any of us noticed it much this morning as we slurped our coffee or downed our eggs over this newspaper.
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The office boy who became a poet
I made up my mind when I moved my home office out of the house last summer that I’d organize some of my books, that I’d categorize and catalogue them in a way that would help me find the one I wanted when I wanted it. I can’t say it worked out as well as I had hoped. Already, I have the overflow stacked on the floor and shoved into the spaces where previous tenants once lived. Gradually, expediency is replacing order, so fiction and non-fiction, biographies and novels, are scandalously co-mingling on my shelves.
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THE OFF SEASON: The office boy who became a poet
I made up my mind when I moved my home office out of the house last summer that I’d organize some of my books, that I’d categorize and catalogue them in a way that would help me find the one I wanted when I wanted it. I can’t say it worked out as well as I had hoped.
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THE OFF SEASON: It’s taken long time to say thanks…
It was with a cup of coffee and a newspaper in my hands a few Mondays ago that I discovered that Mr. Hapenny had died.
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THE OFF SEASON: Lessons learned from the night the ice fell
The picture window of my cabin is sealed in a perfect glaze of ice as I write this, last Thursday morning, and since it faces due north and sees little direct sunlight, I imagine I will be looking through this shower door glass of mine for a few more days. But since I sit and watch the woods much of the time, instead of writing, I suppose the ice is serving a rare good purpose in keeping me on task.
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The Off Season: Pass a ‘midnight dreary’ with The Big Read
It was a pretty poor excuse for an evening one night last week as I lay beside our glowing fireplace, a pillow propped behind my head. I was spending some time with my current read, enjoying each page in the semi-darkness, smug in the knowledge that I’d not be heading to my classroom the next day.
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The Off Season: ‘Too old and too lazy’ to deal with coyotes
Despite the cold and the ever-present winter breezes that blow across our hill these days, I often find myself, even in the blue evenings, standing on the walk near my cabin, looking at the stars or watching for the last red-tailed hawks of the day as they float by in the drafts.
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The Off Season: The passion of having a passion is a great thing
It just occurred to me that I am fortunate to have a passion — a drive to do something that takes me away from the clutches of my job, of home repairs, of the mundane and the ho-hum.
- More Mike Lunsford Headlines
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MIKE LUNSFORD: Books open our eyes to that which we will never see
Nordic Festival Puts North Korea in Spotlight
Greece Passes New Austerity Deal Amid Rioting
'Rumor Has It' Adele's Rolling in the Grammys
Coroner: Houston Autopsy Results Weeks Away
Raw Video: Whitney Houston's Last Performance
Grohl, Grammy Nominees Cut Up on the Red Carpet
Raw Video: Greek Rioting Ahead of Austerity Vote
Raw Video: Child Rescued After Kosovo Avalanche
Reaction to Houston's Death at Clive Davis Party
Pop Music Superstar Whitney Houston Dies at 48
Fuel Removal Under Way on Capsized Italian Ship
Severe Cold Wreaks Havoc in China
Whitney Houston's Church Mourns Her Passing
79 Turtles Seized at Shanghai Airport
Police: Houston Found Dead in Her Hotel Room
Fans 'Speechless' Over Houston's Death
Today in History for Tuesday, February 12th
And the Winner for Best Super Bowl Ad Is...
Stocks Fall Sharply As Greek Deal Is Held Up
Arab League Wants U.N. Help in Syria
Sandusky Can See Grandkids, Have Local Jury
'Bachelor' Free Falls into the Ocean
Apple of their eye at $500 a share
Adele's revealing "60 Minutes" interview
Rosenthal: A's sign Cespedes
Bobby Brown on Houston's Death
Turkey's first face transplant
Exclusive Video: Bobbi Kristina Leaving Hospital
Obama Unveils $3.8 Trillion Budget
Kelly Ripa's Fashion Faux Pas
Lusetich: AT&T Recap
Raw Video: Aurora Borealis As Seen From Space
Grammys 2012: Highlights
2.12: Pebble Beach Pro-Am -- Phil Mickelson
2012 Grammys: Rihanna
2012 Grammys: Taylor Swift
Exclusive Video - Whitney's Bodybag
FUEL TV: Punk Payback Gym tips
