Light in May

Earlier this week, I thought I might write my post about memory, and then forgot why - I wish I were kidding. Today, though, I noticed the Almanac’s latest banner quotation, and I saw Faulkner’s compelling words from Light in August: Memory believes before knowing remembers. Believes longer than recollects, longer than knowing, even wonders. Oh, good, I thought, I knew there was a reason.

​Wednesday, I’ll turn 79, and increasingly, my short-term memory fails me. I’ll go to do something, but my mind’s eye gets blocked by. . . what? Scientists point to natural shifts like brain shrinkage, cellular changes, and vascular decline. They suggest I’m probably okay and that it’s normal to take longer to absorb new information. That I shouldn’t worry too much when I misplace things. I wish I could remember this reassurance when I’m groping around for my phone.

​There are some things, though, I remember clearly. Just this morning, my brother sent my siblings and me a picture of an indelible spot from our childhoods called High Dive. Located on the rugged, rocky shoreline of New Hampshire’s Baboosic Lake—where our family had a summer cottage—this was an elevated granite ledge famous for its magnificent rope swing. Three platforms climbing the height of the tree added to its spectacular nature. The spot was a place for showing off and falling in love. Later in life, I’d understand the term rites of passage. As a teenager, the spot gave me, my siblings, and my friends a chance to test our nerves, feel free, and have fun. I’ll never forget the day the sickening buzz of a chainsaw traveled across the lake as some realtor cut the tree to the ground. Memories like these remind me that some moments remain vivid no matter how much time passes.

​Good things come to an end, and so do people. Recently, I attended a Celebration of Life for my friend and colleague, Judy. Her husband, sons, sisters, and friends delivered heartfelt tributes. We heard stories that evoked admiration as they revealed some of the finer points of her well-lived life. The usual baby, wedding, and family pictures made up the photo montage. We saw shots of her as a teacher, a wife, and a mom. I loved the ones of her as a pigtailed hippy traveling the storied road to Woodstock. And, my favorites were the retirement photos: Smart, grounded Judy, smiling over her potter’s wheel - so fitting for the shaper of people that she was.

​Occasions like these, as celebrative as they can be, don’t extinguish the reality: Death raises compelling questions. Against the vividness of life, death is the ultimate thud. And yet, and yet.

​At the end of the program, Judy’s husband acknowledged that he knew that each of us had been touched by her and had our own stories of being a part of her life. In that context, he said, as we continue our lives, we’ll all carry a part of her with us. He was a fellow teacher, too, and didn’t quote Faulkner, but he could have.

Confronting Judy’s death gets me thinking about Catherine’s. As a tree, our Jack Pine has fallen. Thinking of her, I remember Donald Hall’s reflections on his poem Ox-Cart Man. Like the man in his poem, Catherine’s life sustained itself by extending itself, and she did that until the end. As I finish this post, I am moved to learn that her ashes are being sprinkled in Beltrami Forest today. At times, my mind may be a sieve, but I know some things for certain: the mystery of how lives shape us resists explanation — and outlives what we think we know.

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