Our earliest memories are odd things, sometimes. For me, the scattering of images and scenes among the most ancient of my own are as vivid as any, but the clips are short and disjointed. Among my very first, though, is of how quickly my Old Man came to the rescue when I called.
A thick wrapping of ivy grew around a light pole in the Old Man’s side yard, and my grandmother had told him she wanted it trimmed. He had just arrived home from work, but he got the hedge shears out of the smoke house and set them down before going inside to change clothes. I was probably four years old.
As the Old Man returned to the scene, I picked up the shears, proceeded to the hedge in question and began whacking away. It was some form of English ivy and verdant. “What could it hurt?” I presume they thought.
With my third or fourth whack, the shears found a healthy nest full of red wasps, all of whom quickly launched sorties that promptly found me. I can only assume I raised a mighty howl. The memory’s audio track includes their buzz combined with my grandmother’s shouts, both audible above whatever wails I could add.
The picture I can still see is of me holding the shears while being lit up by wasps as the Old Man quickly gathered me under my arms and ran the two of us away. The next segment recalled is of the Old Man using a red coffee can to dash a pint of gasoline onto the nest in question, a solution both he and my grandmother made sure I got to see. The next clip finds me on the couch later at home under an ice pack.
With that for its earliest beginnings, my association with the primary Old Man and his many associates had room only to improve. I have thoroughly enjoyed writing about them over the years, and I hope to continue to do so for many years to come. Each column becomes a closely-examined visit with people now so terribly long gone.
I am blessed with many poignant memories. By teasing them out a thread at a time, the strings lead me back to otherwise lost specifics of days that have passed.
The strings are connected to assorted pieces and bits, and they rarely run in straight lines. The scenes themselves are not always fully formed, but their elements are anything but vague. I can recall how a specific, yellow plastic coffee cup felt, the texture of the handle and the sound it made when clattered down. I remember the flavor of tomatoes brought straight in from the garden, peeled and sliced, and the warmth they retained from their last look at the sun that had made them grow.
Each memory’s empty bits, often prodigious, can be filled in through general knowledge of family history and simple logic, but the small elements, still alive as ever, are what make them sing.
Children raised in environments of respect and trust generally thrive. My grandmother and the Old Man expected a lot, and they were always quick to say they were proud of what I delivered. Her guidance and his example still affect my decisions today. Our experiences, our stories, those have been an inherited wealth beyond all treasure and, even now, a full lifetime further on, no matter whether it’s guidance or advice or rescue I may need, they still come quickly when I call.
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You can help your community
Quality, in-depth journalism is essential to a healthy community. The Dispatch brings you the most complete reporting and insightful commentary in the Golden Triangle, but we need your help to continue our efforts. In the past week, our reporters have posted 24 articles to cdispatch.com. Please consider subscribing to our website for only $2.30 per week to help support local journalism and our community.
