Treasured Moments

During a periodic climbing of stairs to my loft and starting to give the place a good cleaning, I tackled an antique dresser with neglected drawers, easy to ignore. There were stashes of old computer and cell phone parts in the top drawer. Acknowledging that some items are toast, I tossed ancient keyboards, printer wires, cellphone cases, and assorted components. I decided to hold onto a couple of old flip phones. I have occasional fantasies about deciding not to have another smartphone. Modern electronics are amazing, but I hope secretly that returning to a flip phone could be a grounding experience. Maybe there’s a path back to a modicum of innocence. Anyway, while in that top drawer I tossed and thought.

The second drawer held a layer of brand new boxes of Christmas Cards, from after-Christmas sales, long ago when I thought about sending cards to friends. I never managed because of the onset of a smarter age, when it began taking too much effort to handwrite notes, address envelopes, affix stamps, and then find a mailbox. Especially in this town where the Post Office eliminated neighborhood mailboxes to reduce the work of its carriers. Now, one must know where it’s possible to deposit an envelope for mailing or carry what’s to be mailed directly to the Post Office. I didn’t discard the cards in case returning to a flip phone alters my habits.

Under the cards were hard photographs were from when it was necessary to have films developed. They showed my mom, sisters, family friends, pets, and yes, some of me that looked nothing like me these days. The biggest surprise was discovering an old notebook that I used to carry everywhere. In it were early drafts of character sketches for stories I hoped to write. The thing is that those bits, based on real experiences, felt more powerful than the photographs. The sketches told instances of love.

One vividly brought back images of a fellow who one afternoon crossed my path in Santa Monica. He was tall, his jacket of worn leather went well with his long stride and expensive cowboy boots. I watched his “good hair”, blondish, and longish in a manner popular at the time, slightly bobbing in sync to his steps. I wanted to touch his hair, run my fingers through its fineness. As he disappeared ahead, I scribbled impressions, and noted that I’d fallen in love.

Another story reminded me of falling in love at a dance, the kind folks attend without knowing anybody and hoping to meet someone special. As usual, nobody paid any attention to me. That was okay, for I wasn’t much of a dancer. I knew good dancing though, having watched my older sister who could do all the moves. When a fellow came asking me to dance, I protested, explaing myself as a very mediocre dancer. “Don’t worry,” and he pulled me to my feet for a slow number. He held me correctly and was a good leader. I can’t remember the music, but with my head beside his, I heard him humming sweetly. Before that dance ended I felt in love. He returned me to my seat, thanked me and soon began dancing swing with a woman who’d just entered. They looked good together, partners for the evening.

I couldn’t read on and set the notebook aside. I’d return when there’s time to sit reflecting on those awkward growing years. Or maybe not, for they were painful years. It’s best to be beyond immature yearning, and finally, with enough experience assessing situations and people to stay in the present and realistic.

But there’s a sneaky, still-childish me that catches me off guard. While thumbing through a recent “New Yorker Magazine”, I paused to read a poem, which I almost never do. It told the story of two people meeting for the first time over lunch, and later, as they were parting, the poet writes:

He kissed my cheeks. Said he had been fooled. “I didn’t think they made women like you anymore.” Tipped his cowboy hat & took off his sunglasses. My god, in the dark his eyes burned so clear and wild I thought the sun was out, roaring through our hearts like a song, daring its hunter to aim.

From “Heart of Darkness” by Rachel Eliza Griffiiths

I got it! It’s bold immediacy nearly sent me straight back to my book of early scribbles. It encouraged me to relive, and this time appreciate my youthful imaginings.

Dear Readers, Have a lovely day, and read at least one poem. Diana