Sometimes, if I have a quiet moment, I'll close my eyes and try to conjure up a distant memory of growing up on the farm. If I focus, I can remember bits and pieces of operating our old Case tractor as a young boy. I can remember the feel of the seat and the gentle lurch when the tractor first started moving. At some point, Dad made a rack that attached to the hitch and held a 55 gallon drum. One of my chores was to fetch water from our pond for the cows. I remember that the top of the lidless drum was close to level with the tractor seat and not all that far from it. The drive back from the pond was always an exercise in trying to drive as smoothly as possible. Even so, it was impossible to do the trip without getting water sloshed on your back. I remember bits and pieces. I wish I could recall more.
I wish there was a way to rank my memories - to designate the lyrics to some old pop song as less worthy of retention than my days on the farm. Unfortunately, sometimes it seems just the opposite is true. I guess I kind of understand it. Many of the memories I cherish and strain to remember now were perfectly ordinary moments at the time. You don't put a lot of effort into remembering what it feels like to drive a tractor when there's a reasonable chance you'll be driving it again tomorrow.
So, instead I try to spend a few moments now dredging up the scattered bits and pieces: The way it felt to sprawl across my father as he tried to nap on the sun porch; The faint smell of tobacco and cigarette smoke; The rough feel of stubble when my cheek brushed against his. I consciously pull these fragments to the fore-front in an attempt to retain them just a little longer.
As I go through seemingly ordinary days now, I'm mindful that someday I may look back to find that memories of these times have become treasures as well. I realize I need to spend time now appreciating the everyday normal of our lives - to take the time to really commit the experience to long term memory. I wish I'd done a better job of this when my boys were younger - at the time, life was hectic and funny and exhilarating and scary and it seemed impossible that I would ever forget any of it. Now, I look back and most of it's there but some of the detail is blurred. Luckily, my kids have young minds without as much stuff in them and they can help me fill in the missing pieces. A part of me hopes that having them remind me now will help them remember later in life.
So, here I sit - straining to recall the night sky on a clear winter night while simultaneously trying to block out the refrain from "Night Fever" ringing in my head.
