The Power of Remembering

Copyright © 2019

By Ralph F. Couey

As the years pile up, our bodies begin to break down.  This is the inevitability of aging, the one thing we all laugh about to each other, but perhaps cry over to ourselves. Gradually, we are forced into giving up activities in surrender to our fading capabilities.  But for me, I can live with the physical degradation, to a point.  I had to give up softball because I just got too slow.  I had to give up my motorcycle because my reflexes were no longer quick enough to keep me safe. I had to give up running because my joints could no longer take the pounding.

But I have taken up other activities.  I'm still writing.  I'd taken up hiking several years ago, and as soon as I am completely over my surgery and pneumonia, I'll happily return to the trails.  I play ground golf, a local Hawai'i hybrid of golf, croquet, and frisbee.  While it's not the same as tearing around the bases with my hair on fire, it's way better than flopping on the couch in front of the TV.  I've gone back to work in a really interesting job in state government serving the public once again.  And I'm caring for my memory-impaired mother-in-law, which keeps me from drowning in my own occasional pocket of self-misery.

One of the saddest things is what happens between the ears.  The brain gets old and memories, once sharp and complete begin to take on a kind of hazy indistinct miasma from which accuracy gets harder to glean.  Of all the bad parts of aging, for me, this is the worse.

It's hard to understand.  Some recollections remain razor-sharp.  The earliest reliable memory I have is from May 5, 1961.  I was five years old (nearly six) sitting on the front porch with my mother as we listened  to the breathless recounting of Astronaut Alan Shepard's suborbital flight.  Yes, on the radio.

Beyond that, there are minute scraps that flare into sharp recollection on occasion.  The first time I earned some praise from my first-grade teacher.  Holding the first dog we ever owned.  Sitting in front of the television on Saturday morning watching cartoons while my Alphabits grew soggy in the bowl.  I remember on cold winter mornings I would get out of bed and sit in front of the furnace vent underneath the window and look around and the frigid outside while I sat warm and comfortable on the floor.  I would stay there until Mom or Dad would tell me for the third time to get ready for school.

My Dad had gone out of town again, I think it was either Nigeria or East Berlin that time.  I had been unaccountably (and uncharacteristically) well-behaved, so she decided to treat me by taking me to Kansas-City's old Municipal Stadium to watch my beloved Kansas City A's.  I loved baseball, and I loved going to the games.  Dad rarely took me, mainly because he was a football fan and was terribly bored by any contest not ruled by a clock.  As it turned out, it was a real treat because she had sprung for box seat tickets (at a confiscatory $3.50 a pop).  It was early August 1964, a warm and humid evening. The Yankees were in town, and I was about as excited as I had ever been.  After walking into the venerable old structure, we found the aisle where our seats were.  Leaving her in my proverbial dust, I raced down the cracked concrete steps, my steps growing longer as I got closer to the field.  I was just a bit out of control, so I ended up banging off the rail at the bottom.  The first thing I saw was the transition from foul area warning track to grass, and I was amazed that every blade of grass seemed to be standing at attention.  

Then, I slowly raised my head.  There, in front of me on the deep green of George Toma's flawless grass field were my heroes.  Campy Campaneris, Rocky Colavito, Dick Green, Jose Tartabull, Jom Gentile, and my two favorites, Ed Charles and Ken "Hawk" Harrelson, who still has my vote for the best nickname ever.  In my previous visits, we were relegated to the upper deck, so from this rare field-level perspective, these men looked enormous.   As I took in the sights, I also remember the smells.  Hot Dogs, popcorn, and the ever-present smell of cigarettes hanging in the humid air.  

To my left, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw a big fella in Yankee road grey talking to some folks at the rail.  He finished his conversation and turned in my direction at the same moment I turned towards him.  We locked eyes and he smiled briefly and in an Oklahoma drawl said, "How ya doin', kid?"  Then he turned and jogged back to the field, leaving me with the sight of that magical, legendary, and iconic number 7.  

I was nine years old, a baseball fan, and I had just been face-to-face with Mickey Mantle.

Kansas City won that game, surprisingly.  Whitey Ford was cuffed around by the A's, while John O'Donoghue turned in a fine performance.  The only run he gave up was a long home run by (who else?) Mantle in the sixth inning.

It is odd that I still remember so much from that night, and not just the game.  I remember the velvety air of a Missouri summer night, the smells of the ballpark.  I remember turning to my Mom at one point and thanking her for taking me.  The gentle smile I got in return warmed me all the way through.

There are other moments, which for space and time, I won't bore my readers.  Seeing my wife coming up the aisle in her wedding gown, and that moment I held our first child in my arms and realizing that my youth was well and truly over. Giving up my motorcycle was one of those truly painful moments, but I still have incredible memories of those rides.  One in particular was on a fall afternoon in Pennsylvania.  I was riding through the mountains east of Johnstown.  I remember being in a forest full of autumn's vivid reds and brilliant golds under a sky of the purest cobalt blue.  I was leaned hard into a tight curve on a road dappled in sun and leaves while behind me, the roar of the engine streamed away, more of a song than a sound.  The air was cool, but not yet cold and full of the smells of fall.  I felt vividly, vibrantly alive.

The years ahead will be far fewer than the ones already passed.  I don't know how long I will be continuing in this life, but I'm pretty sure that the older I get, the less I will remember, like where the car keys are, or why I walked into a particular room.  Or why I couldn't remember a particular appointment or someone's name.  But I'm sure that in some parts of my brain, these beautiful snippets from my life will always be there, ready to be taken out, dusted off, and re-lived.

There will be a day when I will be sitting in a wheelchair someplace, staring off into space.  But at some point, I may smile just a bit.  Maybe a bit of light will return to my eyes.  One of those small pieces of priceless joy will have unfolded in my mind and for a few precious moments, I will be transported to another time and place.   

And life will be beautiful once again.