memories

Picking through the Flotsam and Jetsam of a Life

/ Joe Broadmeadow / 5 Comments

I went to an estate sale the other day. It was not in some huge mansion full of antiques or precious jewels. It was a small, 1950’s style ranch in a non-descript neighborhood in Providence. One of those post-war neighborhoods that dot this country.

My sister-in-law is a fan of these things. When she told us about the latest one, we decided to tag along.

We arrived about an hour or so after it opened. Many of the larger, furniture type items were already marked as sold.  The remaining few looked like they had been ordered from the Sears & Roebuck Catalog. They appeared well-cared for and, other than being from the last century, quite serviceable.

I wondered how many memorable moments took place while people sat there.

In the basement was a pool table covered with pictures. Most were 8X10 black and white images. It struck me how these images captured a moment in the life of people. People unfamiliar to those of us wandering around. The treasure hunters would pick up a picture and turn it over. Looking for something that would make it valuable. Finding none, they would toss it aside.

These images were the product of a much different technology. One a world apart from the immediacy of today’s digital images. Someone had to compose the image, take the picture, develop the film, then enlarge the print. They were then cherished by those shown in the picture.

At the time, these images brought some joy to those who saw them. They captured a moment in the life of those depicted in them. They held these memories until the bearers of those images, or those who knew them, passed from this life.

Now, they were mere distractions to those seeking something to buy and perhaps sell. Images of someone known only to their families carry no such value.

In another area was a tool bench. Hammers, nails, pliers, nuts & bolts lay scattered around in no particular order. I wondered when the last person to use that work bench walked away if they realized it would be for the last time.

I felt almost as if I were interrupting a funeral. Wandering around, looking at things that meant nothing to my life. Yet they meant everything to the life of someone else.

It reminded me of the scene in A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come shows Scrooge his death. The scavengers are selling the items they took while Scrooge lay dead in his bed. Laughing at their good fortune in his demise.

Wandering around this house made me feel the scavenger. I decided not to disturb the remnants of these lives and leave them to their past.

There was nothing I could buy that offered any true value.

 

Diluting the Joy of Memory

/ Joe Broadmeadow / 1 Comment

There was a time when having one’s picture taken required planning and someone with skill. After staging the subject and composing the shot, one sat still as the photographer took the picture.

Depending on the location the group broke up, waited for the flash effect to fade, then waited for the picture to be developed. Viewing the image required patience. It could be days or even weeks before one saw the results.

I often go for long walks in Cumberland. Along Mendon Road, I pass a faded sign for Rowbottom studios. Mr. Rowbottom was the official school photographer throughout my grammar school days. If you look up patience in the dictionary I would bet his picture is there.

I have vague memories of being forced to wear nice clothes, meaning ones without patches on the knees from our schoolyard basketball games, sometimes even a dreaded tie on the day set for school pictures.

All day in my least comfortable clothes waiting to be summoned for my turn to follow the instructions on where and how to sit, to smile, to “hold that pose” until Mr. Rowbottom was satisfied with the result.

Several weeks later, an envelope would be passed out in school containing the pictures. They thrilled my mother, I looked and shrugged. “Yeah, they’re nice. Can I go play baseball now?”

I wish I had been more appreciative for her. The joy of those captured moments of a young boy all too soon grown is a precious thing.

It’s all different today. More pictures are taken in one day today than in perhaps all of the time between the first photograph and the invention of digital imaging. There are probably more pictures of cats taken in one day than there were of all the students at Ashton School all those years ago.

My daughter has more pictures of her dogs than the population of North America.

The joy of those photographs diluted by technology. No one waits for a picture to appear anymore. No kid has to sit through a session with a skilled photographer to capture the stages of their lives. Today, every moment is memorialized; robbing it of its uniqueness.

No one has to remember what went on. They merely flick through some screens and there it is.

A friend posted a picture on-line the other day. You see, I appreciate that some technology is useful. Here’s the picture,

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This is one of the few pictures taken that day. Some parents may have shot pictures during the game but I’ve never seen them. The picture captures a moment in each of those lives frozen in time. 1968 Cumberland-Lincoln Boys Club Champion Tigers in Cumberland Rhode Island.

There’s no video, no Facebook page, no online archive of thousands of images of each moment of that day. Just this single image of seventeen proud and happy boys celebrating a memorable summer day.

The picture helps me remember that day. Remember those moments of a more innocent time. It reminds me to refresh those memories every once in a while. Anything more than that dilutes the magic.

My Old Friend: Retracing My Footsteps on the Appalachian Trail

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My wife and I are in Maine enjoying a short vacation in the small town of Bethel.

We decided to do a short hike on Table Rock Loop in Grafton Notch State Park. It is just a 2.4-mile loop but with a steep elevation gain of almost 2000 feet in 1.2 miles.

I’ve been on a section of this trail before. The trail head begins on the northbound section of the Appalachian Trail, or AT, as it passes through Grafton Notch on its way to Mt. Katahdin.

This section is the beginning of the Mahoosuc mountain range and the much dreaded Mahoosuc Notch part of the AT (look it up, I enjoyed it some do not.)

Seeing the familiar white blazes of the AT brought back memories of one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Hiking the AT leaves an indelible mark.

The weather here was in the high 40’s with strong winds. Soon the mountain reminded us of just how fast things could change. One moment the sun was shining, the next we were hiking in snow showers.

Mid-May, it was snowing, and we were hiking. On purpose no less.

As we climbed to the 2900-foot elevation ridgeline, the trail turned icy. All along the way we saw frozen chunks of ice and snow shadowed by the many rock crevices and trees.

The last section was a bit of a rock scramble. Hands grasping at rocks and roots to lift yourself over the boulders and continue to climb.

Then, the edge of the clearing came into view.

With a few more steps, we were there. Standing on a glacier-carved shoulder of the mountain overlooking Mt. Speck and the notch.

It is why we do these things. To stand where you must push yourself to see these sights. Your own effort takes you there and nothing else. If you want to see it you have to walk there.

It was nice seeing my old friend the AT. It stirs memories of similar emotions like one’s first car, first love, or first look at a newborn child.

For those who have never hiked the AT, it is impossible for me to explain it to you or for you to understand.

For those of us who have hiked the AT, it’s impossible to forget.

The Border of Innocence

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The other day, we were moving some things around in our condo. One of the tasks involved emptying a chest full of photo albums, relocating the chest, and then placing the albums back inside. There wasn’t any time for reminiscing, but one picture caught my eye.

A solitary color photo of a 12-year old me slipped from whatever album it was in.

For those of us from the pre-digital image age, the familiar date stamp is visible on the left of the photo in the surrounding white border.

August 1968.photo

The picture captured me standing alongside a river in New Hampshire proudly holding up a fish.  The fish is barely bigger than my hand. Nevertheless, I was proud of my angling abilities.

My father took the picture. It was during a family vacation, staying in a cabin in the White Mountains near Lake Chocorua New Hampshire.

One of the first of many days I would spend over my lifetime there. A glimpse of the early moments of my explorations in those mountains, rivers, and lakes.

Yet, when I saw the picture, I realized it also captured the last moments of my innocence. My last few moments before I faced the reality of life’s fleeting and fickle ways.

Mere moments after that image was taken, we heard a loud crash. The sounds of shattering glass and twisting, crushing metal filled the air.

My father took off running toward the sound, me behind him trying to keep up. A short distance away, around a slight bend in the road, we came upon the source of the noise.

A small car rammed into a tree, angled up. There was glass everywhere, steam rose from the ruptured radiator, the smell of hot oil and gasoline permeated the air.

I didn’t notice any of this until much later. My eyes focused on the two young girls, not much younger than me, splayed on the hood.

Pale skin contrasted against the blood. It was an unfamiliar skin tone, yet I knew instinctively this was a sign of impending death.

One of the girls was partially through the windshield, her momentum arrested by the sharp glass.  The other was on the hood, arms and legs bent in unnatural shapes.

My father called me over, taking my hand and showing me how to put pressure on the area of blood pumping from the leg of the girl on the hood. I did as I was told, oblivious to the other things happening.

Then, I heard the screams.  I turned to look. A woman, pinned by the steering wheel, reaching for her girls, looked at me from a blood-covered face.

Much of the memory is clouded and faded. It is said each time we recall a memory we change it a bit. I don’t recall I ever found out what happened to them.  I don’t recall leaving the scene. I don’t recall ever even speaking about it again with anyone.

When I saw the picture, I remembered the feeling of things changing. I knew that image captured a moment in time. Those last moments before my loss of innocence.

Coconut Macaroons and “Taking a Shock”: Memories of a Young Boy

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It always amuses me the things that spark a memory. Sometimes it is the notes of a song, a sudden aroma, or the taste of something familiar.

Today, it was a coconut macaroon. The white flakes encased in golden brown sweet gooey-soft cookies shaped like a small hill sparked the synapses. The flavor transported me to a time when I was five or six years old on a visit to my maternal grandparents.

This was early 1960-61. A time when generations of families remained at home. My grandparents shared their home with two elderly women known as Aunt Margaret and Aunt Mame. My fuzzy memory tells me they were my grandfather’s aunts which makes them some sort of Great Aunt to me in the structure of family relationships.

Margaret was able to get around; Mame was confined to a bed. I have snippets of the explanation for her condition. I recall hearing she had “taken a shock.” Not having any foundation to understand this, I imagined she had unplugged some electrical appliance by yanking on the cord (as I was cautioned never to do) and this had somehow “shocked” her into her condition.

It made sense to me and provided a lifetime of good behavior related to electrical appliances and disconnecting them from plug sockets.

On our visits to the grandparents, part of the ritual was visiting with Aunt Margaret and Aunt Mame.

The specter of the elderly, bed-ridden woman could be terrifying to me, but there was an incentive to overcome it and approach her.

She would keep a package of coconut macaroons in a drawer near her bed. It was likely the one source of pleasure in her existence. Yet, she would willingly share them with a nervous, frightened, but hungry little boy. This new and wonderful flavor overcame any hesitation I might feel.

She would smile and point to the drawer for me to select one for myself. Now that I think about it, I don’t recall if she ever ate one. All this time and it just occurs to me she kept them there just to share them with us.

She passed away sometime during my younger years at a time I was not fully cognizant of the finality of death, yet her memory remains.

A woman, born of a generation I could not begin to appreciate, taught me a lesson that remains with me to this day.

It does not matter one’s station in life. It does not matter how wealthy, smart, handsome, or successful one is. What matters are the quality of the memories you create with friends and family.

Her simple act of sharing a coconut macaroon with that little five-year old boy taught me that the measure of a life well lived is to be someone worth remembering.

Everything else pales in comparison.

The Day the Music Died, again.

/ Joe Broadmeadow / 2 Comments

I was saddened to hear of Keith Emerson’s passing. The music of ELP was big part of my youth. Every generation believes the music of their time to be the best. It resonates in our memories.

Yet I think the music of that time has few equals, certainly not the misogynistic trash that plays to the worse of human nature which passes for music today.

I wonder if Keith realized how much his virtuosity on keyboards and his groundbreaking use of synthesizers touched us all. Each of the musicians who comprised ELP, Keith, Greg Lake, and Carl Palmer were amazing talents whose music was both innovative and timeless.

It is the mark of an artist when their work continues to live in our memories.

I wonder if he realized that all it takes is the first few notes of any ELP song to transport me back to my age of innocence. How the words and music to this day play in my memory.

He had white horses
And ladies by the score
All dressed in satin
And waiting by the door

The lyrics may be open to interpretation, the pleasure of the music nonetheless magical.

Why a person chooses to end their life is oft-shrouded in mystery and misunderstanding. Perhaps if he knew the effect his music had on so many people, he would have realized he was indeed a Lucky Man.10447_ELP_ELP_300

Generational Perspective

/ Joe Broadmeadow / 4 Comments

Here is a bit of a perspective for my fellow members of the Cumberland High School Class of 1974.

In 1974:

The President of the United States was Richard Nixon, until August 9th, and then Gerald Ford after Nixon resigned due to the Watergate hearings. Ford pardoned Nixon. Both Ford and Nixon are dead

The Soviet Union was intact, armed with nuclear weapons, and still our sworn enemy. Alexei Nikolayevich Kosygin was the premier. He is dead

There were no cell phones, internet, or cable television

We landed on the moon for the first time 5 years before in 1969 and for the last time in 1972. Only 12 men have ever walked on the moon. We have not been back since nor do we have a real timeline for returning.

The Symbionese Liberation Army kidnapped Patty Hearst. She later joined them and participated in a series of bank robberies. She is now 61.

Muhammed Ali fought George Frazier in the Rumble in the Jungle. Ali is 73 Foreman is 66.

A gallon of gas was $.55

The speed limit was changed to 55 to conserve gasoline.

President Ford announced an amnesty for Vietnam War deserters and draft evaders.

The Kootenai Native American Tribe in Idaho declares war on the United States. It settled peacefully. The only time a war was declared and resolved without a shot being fired or anyone killed.

The World Population: 4 billion. (now 7 billion)

India successfully tests a nuclear weapon. They become the 6th Nuclear power. (There are 9 now, 15923 total estimated nuclear warheads in the world as of 2015)

The first MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) is developed.

After 84 days in space, the American astronauts aboard Skylab return to earth.

A 3.2 million year-old hominid skeleton, 40% complete, is found in Ethiopia. She is named Lucy. Dr. Johanson, the paleontologist who found her, says he named her for the Beatles song Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

The pocket calculator goes on sale. (I got one as a graduation present, it cost my parents 84$)

Bar codes are used for the first time.

Salty Brine was still on WPRO announcing “No school, Foster Gloucester.”

Movies of 1974

The Sting, The Exorcist, Blazing Saddles (my favorite), Serpico, Death Wish

#1 Song of 1974

The Way We Were

Other songs:

Time in a Bottle, Hooked on a Feeling, Band on the Run, Can’t Get Enough of You Babe, Kung Fu Fighting

(How many of you sang these songs as you read them?)

1974 holds the record for the most #1 Billboard hits in one year, 35.

TV Shows:

Kojak, The Price is Right, The Six Million Dollar Man

Here’s one that may bring some of you to tears

Born in 1974:

Leonardo DiCaprio, Alanis Morrisette. Jimmy Fallon, Victoria Beckham

So why the walk down memory lane? The end of a year lends itself to a momentary review of things. A recap of the path of our lives. We have come a long way from 1974, some of those class members didn’t have the opportunity to reach 2015.

As time moves on, as the year changes from 2015 to 2016, as we all approach our 60th birthdays, I thought I would remind us of where were all those years ago, the events that shaped us, and, more importantly, get us all to make the most of the time we have left.

The reality of life is that most of us will not be around when a Cumberland High School Class of 2016 graduate writes a similar memoir of his or her graduation year. It is important for all of us to be mindful of today and use the time we have wisely.

I wish you all a very Happy New Year, I apologize for reminding those of you trying to ignore the significance of 2016 age-wise, and hope you all have many more memories yet to create and cherish.

 

Landfill Memories

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I took my two Yorkies, Max and Ralph, on a tour of the now long closed Cumberland Landfill off Albion Road. We jointly ignored the no trespassing sign and headed up the road.

In the foggy memory of my eight-year old self, a trip to the landfill was full of excitement and wonder. We marveled at the mountains of discarded junk, directed by the on-site manager to what seemed to me unorganized piles of treasure. Do not make the mistake of tossing the wrong item in the wrong pile. If you did, you risked facing the wrath of the Junk Commandant.

The man took his job very seriously.

I thought he had the coolest job in the world.

Whenever I revisit somewhere I have not been for years, in particular a place that holds memories, I try to recall the last time I was there. I wonder if I realized then that it might be years or even decades before I returned.

A bit nostalgic over a landfill you might say, but just think of the treasures and memories buried there.

My first red big boy bicycle. A memorable birthday gift. I recall pushing it all around the yard because I could not ride it.

It is buried there.

My entire collection of G.I. Joe equipment, including my astronaut G.I. Joe Gemini space capsule which I flew around my yard and house for hours and hours, imagining being in earth orbit.

It is buried there.

My first baseball glove that I used throughout Little League while dreaming of playing for the New York Yankees (never the Red Sox, I wanted to win a World Series not watch it on TV.)

It is buried there.

A short wave radio that my neighbor built for me. I would listen to broadcasts from around the world, in languages I could not begin to understand, imagining I was helping win the Cold War. Sometimes, I would tune in signals that were purely electronic, imagining they were from another civilization out in space reaching across the Cosmos just to talk to me.

It is buried there.

My first guitar.

It is buried there.

The remnants of the things of an earlier time.

They are all buried there.

It is funny how our possessions go from new, to used, to old, to discarded. They return to us in memories from all those years ago.

Many of the things I once cherished, including a pair of purple crushed velvet bell-bottom pants that I thought were the height of cool, are now hidden beneath oak and elm trees. Some things deserved to be buried, never resurrected even in memory, purple crushed velvet bell-bottoms especially.

I hold onto the memories of the things I once cherished. Not in a desire to return to that time, but because each of them contributed to my progression through this life. There was a time to be that young boy full of dreams and a time to grow up. By holding onto memories, we can preserve that sense of wonder and the possibilities of imagination.

To Max and Ralph, the landfill was just some new growth trees with the occasional piece of rusted metal or plastic piece protruding from the ground. Things to smell and explore.

To me, it holds much of the things of my youth.

I wondered, as the dogs inhaled all the aromas and smells of the area, if they caught a wisp of an eight-year old boy and his G.I. Joe, a boy looking at clouds and seeing dragons, a boy all too soon grown to manhood.

I hope so, because I hold those memories close to my heart.

The Myth of Memory

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What is it about memory? Why is it I can recall some things with absolute clarity while others, no matter the effort, flee from my mind the moment after they enter?

Sitting at my writer’s desk, working on my latest project, I tried to recall a great idea I had for the story. Normally I write these things down because of this trick of memory. However, in this case, I did not. It was brilliant, it was creative, it was wonderfully imaginative, and it was gone.

Hoping to revive the dormant brain cells, I decided to change the mood and put on some music. I usually write to soft classical or new age music, but in this case, I decided on something more upbeat.

I chose Chicago’s first album. As soon as the first song, called Introduction, began, I instantly recalled all of it. A little background here. Way back in 1974 some friends and I put together a band. (Someday I am going to buy an old police car, round up my old friends, and announce “We’re putting the band back together!” but I digress.)

Anyway, one of the places we performed was for the Lincoln High Senior Talent Show (most of the band went to Lincoln but they had to bring in my Cumberland High virtuoso guitar talents to round out the group.)

We played the Chicago song, Introduction. As the song now plays on my computer, I recall every beat, chord change, brass solo, percussion background, bass line, and lyrics. Forever fixed in my mind.

Why? None of us ever made it to the Grammies. While the others were talented musicians (now that I think of it, I may have been selected because my family had a station wagon that could carry the equipment) no one pursued a musical career.

Yet I recall every note from that night more than 40 years ago. Nevertheless, try as I might, I could not recall the idea I had just yesterday.

Memory is a fickle thing.

It changes things as suits it, locks some things in, and tosses others away.

Our memories are made of the important, the unimportant, the poignant, the bittersweet, the happy, the sad, those that bring smiles, and those that bring tears.

We try to hold onto them, but some things are outside our control. Memory is like a myth we hold onto no matter how much it lets us down.

I Lost a Friend Today

/ Joe Broadmeadow / 2 Comments

I lost a friend of 50 years today.

He has passed on.

I met my friend when I was 7 years old and he has always been a part of my life since.

But, in life, there comes a time when you have to let go.

So, I let go.  I will miss him greatly.

In life there are also opportunities.  So my friend is now in the hands of another young child.

My friend, my guitar, something I have had since those first guitar lessons, is now part of another life.

Some arthritis, injuries, and surgery has stolen the dexterity from my fingers.  They remember what they need to do, but can’t quite manage it.

Once you’ve played a “Paul Simon” guitar rift, the melody of Classical Gas, or any other of the hundreds of songs I’ve played on my guitar, it is hard to lose that joy.

Reality is stark sometimes.  I am comforted that my friend is in good hands,   Hands that will learn the simple joy of playing music.  Not to crowds of people, but alone, by yourself, eyes closed, the music flowing from the instrument.

Playing music is as close as one can come to real magic.

It has brought great joy to me over the years.

I lost a friend today.  But I keep the memories.