There are places I’ll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I’ve loved them all
© Lennon-McCartney
T-shirts are scrapbooks for people of a certain vintage. This concert or that festival. Water parks. Theme parks. Central parks in cities in every latitude and longitude. Charity walks or runs. Three for $10 airport specials.
Successfully eating a XXL pizza in Neptune City NJ.
Pieces of my life in cotton or cotton-poly lurk in my basement. Many, too many of them, yet I can’t bring myself to ditch them or donate them. It’s as if they have stories yet to tell.
Even tougher to cull are the tchotchkes.
Physical souvenirs are great for stirring memories, jogging memories, sometimes rousing memories that may be better left dormant. Songs, too, can have those effects.
Ah, reveries.
What’s fascinating, though, is pausing to ask where — from whom — did we get certain habits, certain tics, certain inflections or quirky pronunciations, even certain recipes or food-prep techniques.
Those are a whole nuther class of souvenir, and those are woven deep into our lives.
Sue taught me how to fold fitted sheets, and how to cook my french toast: crisp, with vanilla and little or no cinnamon. She lost her battle 15 years ago, but she lives every time I get out the frying pan.
For some odd reason, playing computer solitaire — Klondike by threes — resurrects Renee, gone four years. I can’t recall ever having a pack of cards or a PC screen alongside her, yet there she is.
Though I’ve learned to crack eggs one-handedly, I mostly do this half-shell-in-each-hand up-down action that mimics a railroad handcar. I know exactly from whom I learned that.
More often than not, mowing the lawn gets a mental serenade of “Pleasant Valley Sunday.” Hmm: weekend squire? TV in every room?
I traveled for business extensively a few years ago, and the survival technique I employed while bunking at this Hampton Inn or that for weeks at a time was to establish a routine straight away. I learned the daily breakfast cycle — what days the blechh omelet foldovers were served, what days the funky but tasty maple sausage came out. What days were oatmeals and eggs, what days deserved a trip to the flip-over waffle maker.
In “Forrest Gump,” as Jenny listens to Forrest’s stories about his cross-country run, she tells him, “I wish I could have been there.” “You were,” he replies.
In living every day, at home, away from home, the rhythms of our relationships sustain us.
Familiarity gets a bum rap. Home is where the habits are, and habits come from places in the heart.
