The Exploration Of a Long-Ago Memory

I am 70 years old these days. I'm not proud of it but I'm glad I made it this far. I am very sentimental. I'm sentimental at a world-class level. If sentimentality and nostalgia were Olympic events I'd win a Gold Medal. And to top it all off, I have a pretty good long-term memory. There is the groundwork for this blog entry.

Way back in the fall of 1967 when I was 16 years old, two high school pals and I picked up a three girls after a high school football game. It wasn't even our high school. It was actually a rival school. The girls were walking down the sidewalk and we asked them if they needed a ride. They were hesitant but apparently decided, correctly, that we looked innocent enough. The young ladies climbed in. Just to be perfectly clear, we were relatively naïve high school guys. We knew the fact of life, but none of us had come close to actually partaking in them. In fact, I'm not sure any of us had even kissed a girl, at least not in any sort of romantic way.  

Anyway, the six of us drove around a while with the girls giggling and sitting on one young male lap or another. After an hour or so one of the girls said she needed to go home. We obliged and took the girls to that girl's house. Before getting out of the car, we asked the names of the girls. The most attractive of the three was named Terry Laine. We jotted this information down on a piece of paper. Terry also volunteered her telephone number.

A few days later my friend called her. I know this because he called her from the telephone in my parent's bedroom when no one was around. He talked to her for about five minutes and then asked her if she, and one of her girlfriends, would want to go out with him and his friend. That friend would be me.

She was not interested. My friend said that he would be driving his father's Mustang fastback. Even that was not enough to sway her. 

For some unknown reason many details of that evening remained in my memory these 53 years later. Obviously one of those details was the girl's name, Terry Laine. I also remember the address of the house where we dropped her and her friends.

Yesterday evening in a burst of nostalgia and curiosity, I looked up that house on the county's property data base website. Surprisingly, the house remained in the Laine name until 2009. From 1963 to 1998 it was in the name of Arthur Laine. From 1998 to 2009 it was in the name of Cynthia Laine. I did an internet search using the search words "Cynthia Laine obituary". Sure enough, I found it, the obituary.

The obituary informed me that Cynthia's daughter, Terry, preceded her in death. Her married name was Wyatt. I then found the obituary of Terry Laine Wyatt. It was very short. It stated that Terry was born in August 1954 and died in 2005. She was divorced and had two grown daughters.

I did some quick math and calculated that on that evening in 1967 Terry was 13 years old. It seems surreal that one and perhaps all of those girls were 13. It is a bit funny, but also a bit unsettling given we never figured them to be that young. And then there is the thought that yet another person from my past is gone, albeit a person who was not hugely consequential in my life. Still, she was a girl from high school days, or in her case, a single evening.

Anyhow, there it is, a small, bittersweet product of an older guy with a distant memory, too much time on his hands, and internet access.

NOT Saving Money

 

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This blog entry began about 12 hours ago. I removed the cap off of a fresh canister of Quaker Oats only to find that the protective inner seal and been opened and completely removed. I thought heck, who is going to do harm to someone's Quaker Oats? So I poured a helping in a bowl, added the milk and threw in the required spoon. Then I just looked down at it and gave it some thought. In about 15 seconds I realized I could not eat it. The container of Quaker Oats had been violated by persons unknown and so I was not willing to eat my breakfast, at least not that breakfast. I dumped out the bowl and threw the Quaker Oats container in the trash.

I do not spend my money willy-nilly but neither am I a miser, at least not anymore. Never did I make a lot of money but through a life without kids nor the purchase of a speedboat, I have amassed a bit of wealth in my nearly 70 years. Now I find that I am willing to spend the modest wealth with a degree of freedom. I can financially absorb the $2.98 cost of a container of Quaker Oats.

This is contrary to my ladyfriend. She is in her mid 60s, independent and like me, she is financially secure. But unlike me, it would seem that her goal is to die with as much money as possible. She clips coupons and scans the newspaper ads (yes, she still has a subscription to a newspaper) for bargains. It seems to be almost an obsession. I have asked about it and her reply is, "Well, you can never tell what the future will hold." My guess is that she has a suspicion that should she ever die she will be allowed to take her money to heaven. That's kind of what it looks like. And yes, she is going to heaven.

A Personal Tradition Denied

I am a world-class sentimentalist. I have occasionally wondered if it might actually be some kind of mental problem. I really do not mind this aspect of myself so I do not feel any particular need to change. Anyway, sentimentality hit me pretty hard this morning.

For about the past dozen years my lady friend, Diana, and I have traveled from our home in Columbus, Ohio to a couple of state parks in Kentucky for a one week vacation. We go to the same state parks (Carter Caves and Natural Bridge) every year at the same time of year. We recognize many of the staff at Natural Bridge and are actually friends with some of the employees at the smaller state park, Carter Caves. The trip has become something of a tradition. Diana is a bird watcher. This time of year in this part of the country birds are migrating north. We also enjoy the spring wildflowers which are pretty much in full bloom in Kentucky when we are there.

About six weeks ago I made reservations for both park lodges, a three day stay at each. Within a day or two I knew that we likely would not be going this year. A pandemic was going to cancel our trip. About a month ago I got a call from Natural Bridge State Park informing me that their lodge was not going to be open. About two weeks ago I got the call from Carter Caves.

A few minutes ago I was looking out the window of my condo here in Columbus, Ohio. 10:15 in the morning. I got to thinking about the trip we could not take. I thought, right now, right this moment Diana and I would be in the Carter Caves's lodge restaurant. The restaurant would not be crowded. It never is. We would be sitting at a table next to a big window that looked out upon the Kentucky forest. On the table Diana would place her binoculars, on the ready to spot any warbler pausing in a tree. I would inspect the menu given to me by Rose, one of the servers we see every year and know by name. I might contemplate a breakfast of three buttermilk pancakes. Diana would be across the table from me, glancing at both her menu and occasionally out the window to the tall trees. I image that she would be ordering grits and a poached egg as she sometimes does.

It would be the end of our three day stay at Carter Caves and so in about an hour we would be loading up the car for our trek farther south to Natural Bridge. As we drive out of Carter Caves State Park I would probably feel a touch of bittersweet melancholy. Yes we would be traveling on to Natural Bridge, but for another year we would be saying farewell to Carter Caves.

This year I am left gazing out of my condo window. I have discovered that being a world-class sentimentalist can be extra hard during a pandemic. Don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining. The world is in the middle of a global pandemic and yet both Diana and I are fairly healthy physically and also financially. Furthermore I'm figuring we will be well next year, and so will Kentucky. I'm a sentimentalist and an optimist.

Time Is Passing Too Quickly

When I was a kid I wanted time to pass quickly. Early in my childhood I wanted to be a grown-up so I could have ice cream and candy whenever I wanted and I could stay up past my bedtime to watch TV. A few years later, in my teenage years, I wanted to be old enough to get my driver's license and buy beer. Those days are a distant past.

Seemingly not long ago I found a shiny, brand new quarter in some change. I decided to save it so I put the coin on a desk and later when the desk was jostled, the quarter fell to the floor against the wall, inconveniently behind the desk. About 15 minutes ago I lowered myself down onto all fours, climbed under the desk and retrieved that freshly-minted quarter. This is 2019. I noticed that the quarter was dated 2015. Did I really acquired that quarter 4 years ago? I could have sworn it had been within the last year. Yes, now time passes too quickly. Christmases come along too rapidly. Semiannual dentist appointments seem weeks apart. I will be shocked when I learn that a movie I saw at the theater was 10 years ago and not the 3 or 4 I would have guessed.

All of this means I am aging faster than I think I am, therefore death is coming up more quickly than I realize that it is. I am not thrilled with the aging but it is death that really concerns me. I try to rationalize it. I think: I'll be dead so I won't really miss both the fun, and the pain of living. For some reason that seems to be small consolation. On a positive note, at least now I can buy beer and am allowed to eat all the candy I want.

A Few Places I Wanted To Live When I Grew Up

I was just looking at a map of the U.S. I have traveled around the country a lot without ever actually living anyplace but in Columbus, Ohio. I have been in 43 states. I am missing a couple of New England states, Hawaii and Alaska. Most of those states were visited in optimum times of the year for pleasant weather. Several times I have said that if I could, I would like to live here (where I was at that moment).

The first time this happened to me was in 1958. I was 7 years old and we were on a family vacation to Florida. We were on the eastern edge of North Carolina when we stopped for lunch. I'm not sure what town that was but it was a family-type restaurant located in a nice neighborhood. The restaurant itself was clean and modern. I remember an outer space-ish chandelier, the type popular in the late 1950s. I thought it was a very neat-o restaurant in a really keen neighborhood. I probably had my standard restaurant meal at that age consisting of a hamburger and a chocolate milk shake. It was undoubtedly wonderful. As we piled into my dad's Oldsmobile to travel on down the highway, I declared to anyone who would listen that I was going to move into the neighborhood, right next to that restaurant, when I grew up.

About 20 years ago I was in western Colorado. My lady friend, Diana, and I had just spent a few days in the Rocky Mountains and we were headed west to Utah. We had a motel reservation in Grand Junction, Colorado. I remember pulling into the motel parking lot, looking to the east and seeing the Rockies, majestically glowing in the late afternoon sun. The next day we traveled west and immediately we encountered the headwaters of the Colorado River and the first traces of the Grand Canyon. Wow, to the east the Rockies, to the west, the spires and red rock canyons. I made a mental note to move to Grand Junction should I get the chance.

On the eastern side of California there is highway 395 going north and south. It goes through a little town of Lone Pine. To the west of the community are the scenic Alabama Hills, known as a film location for countless westerns. Travel a little farther that direction and you're in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Trek out of Lone Pine east bound and you're in desert. I have always appreciated the somber, unbound view across a desert. Diana and I have passed through Lone Pine a number of times and each time I have liked the feel of it. On one trip we actually gave a quick look to a house that was listed as for sale. I would not have had the courage to seriously consider it, let alone sign papers. Maybe somewhere in the back of my mind was that place in North Carolina. That was a pretty nifty chandelier.

A Grand Celebration, Once Upon a Time

I live in Columbus, Ohio, home of The Ohio State University. Not surprising, I have been an Ohio State University football fan since before I can remember. Given that I am 67 years old, that would place the beginning of my fandom in the 1950s somewhere. I've never been a crazed fan, but I've always been a fan.

The Team won their game today against Michigan, their archrival. They were not favored but they won handily 62-39. They may have a shot at playing for the national title.

This reminds me a lot of the 1968 season. I was a high school senior then. They beat #1 ranked Purdue earlier in the season and if they beat Michigan, they would be ranked #1 and as I recall, be in line for the national title.

When they defeated Michigan that Saturday afternoon in 1968, I went down on campus to what I figured would be a massive celebration. A pretty good celebration broke out after the Purdue game so I figured the Michigan celebration would be that much better. The Ohio State campus is situated on High Street, which is a four lane, high traffic street. For about a half mile one side of the street is the campus, the other side consists of various eateries and bars. That's the way it is now and that's pretty much the way it was then.

It was a great celebration in 1968. High Street was flooded with students and revelry. They closed the street to traffic. Kids were sharing alcoholic beverages. I was spontaneously kissed by a pretty girl or two and maybe one or two more that weren't so pretty. I didn't care. I received piggyback rides from strangers and sang the team song, Hang On Sloopy, in unison with other intoxicated kids I had never seen before and would never see again. I was 17 years old, drinking Colt 45 Malt Liquor, among other beverages and was in the middle of the biggest mass party in the history of The Ohio State University.

That was 50 years ago. In fact, it was 50 years ago the day before the publishing of this blog entry. I went down to the shindig with two high school classmates. One of them I now see only every 5 years at class reunions. The other one died a few years ago. I had seen him only about 2 or 3 times in the last 30 years.

This evening I drove down to High Street on campus, to the site of that grand celebration 5 decades ago. It was purely a case of sentimentality, of "old times' sake", with perhaps a dash of simple curiousity. This time around High Street was not blocked off to traffic. Students were walking down the sidewalks. There seemed to be a fair number of kids out and about but I didn't see any overt celebrating. It is probably best that everything was under control, but I can't help thinking that they are missing out. That was one helluva party in 1968. I should know, I was definitely there.

What Roosevelt's 1914 Brazilian Expedition Taught Me

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I just watch a two hour PBS presentation on Teddy Roosevelt's expedition into the Brazilian jungle. Theodore Roosevelt was an ex-president who was a big game hunter in Africa. An expedition into the jungle would seem to be right up his alley. But it took something like three months and it was far more difficult then anyone expected. Three people in the party died. Teddy Roosevelt himself almost perished. He was never the same afterwards and he died about five years later.

Some of the media of the day thought it was just a kind of combination publicity stunt/ego boost conceived by Roosevelt to get attention and that there was no actual benefits to the expedition. When I gave it some thought, that was pretty much my opinion on it. There was really no good reason to go into the South American jungle. In reality, very little was learned, scant little was accomplished.

I got to thinking about the differences of a 1914 Brazilian jungle expedition as opposed to the American expedition to the moon in the 1960s. The lunar landing did not really have any benefits, strictly speaking. We knew most everything about the moon without actually setting foot on it. The difference between the two expeditions is that a whole lot of stuff had to be developed before we could fly to the moon. Propulsion systems had to be made, primitive computers (by today's standards) had to be built and utilized and many other scientific and technological advances had to be conceived. The Roosevelt expedition into the jungle required no such technological progress. The canoes used were no different than ones used thousands of years earlier.

It is kind of a cruel way of putting it, but if Teddy Roosevelt would have stayed home, three men would not have died and unless he was a masochist, Roosevelt would have had a more enjoyable three months of his life and very possibly, a longer life overall.

Here is what can be learned at the individual level... don't climb to the top of Mt. Everest and don't hike across Death Valley in the summer. You will be miserable. It might even kill you. And there is nothing to be gained. If there is some psychological need to do such things, the trip that should be made is to a therapist.