Dusk, 9/29/09

This morning there's an aroma of wet campfire in the air, the not unpleasing scent of damp wood smoke.  Yesterday, though, on the way to Fred's Memorial, you could see a monumental mushroom cloud rising up in the sky and catching the light.  Amazing.  A little scary, of course, but amazing from a distance.

Fred loved many of the same 1904s that I love: Nancy Mitford (1904-1973), Cecil Beaton (1904-1980), Christopher Isherwood (1904-1986), not to mention Peter Pan and Madama Butterfly and The Cherry Orchard  (which all premiered in 1904).  It was a lovely service and made me think, as a good memorial service always does, about my own mortality and what my chances are of having anywhere near as big a turnout (Note to Self: try and get out more so people will miss you when you're gone.)

Yesterday I also received a very kind and touching note from someone I went to school with a long time ago, in Ohio.  As I have not been joking about being unable to remember much of that time in my life, reading someone else's memories of me then was very much like reading about someone you've heard of but never actually met.  Or like being told what you did during an alcohol-induced blackout (not that I've ever had one of those, of course).  It made me a little sad but also curious.  What else had I missed? 

I know what my friend RJK means when he says in his comment yesterday that he has no desire ever to go back, but when you move away from a place as a child, the place becomes the past that is left behind.  Especially if there's nothing and no-one to remind you of it later, the past gets lost.  Some people prefer it that way.  I think my mother, for instance, was glad to let that time in our lives be forgotten.  But sometimes it is important to bring that past forward, into the present. 

And oddly enough, Fred's memorial, which was really all about remembering him and recalling the past, had the effect of making everyone a little more aware of the present.  We came out into the mercilessly sunny day and there we were, here and now, sweaty and blinking in this hot bright present place.  Aware of being here.  Now.  Remembering does that, I think. 

"You were my friend," the message yesterday said, referring to a time I barely remember, when all I do remember was being twelve and scared and unhappy and self-obsessed in the way only a twelve-year-old can be, fighting his demons and interior battles and believe me I know because I went on to teach twelve-year-olds, and I recognized myself in one or two of them, even if I still can't entirely recollect ever being one. 

The point is, whether I knew or fully understood back then, whether I can completely remember or not, it is nice to know I had a friend.  It makes me think I might have been capable of being a friend myself then.  Or that I tried at least (I hope).  It makes me grateful.  It is a comfort to know, now.  I'm glad to know.  Right here and right now.