Memory Chains
Everyone loves a parade. Everyone loves a parade unless you don’t. Edmond and I used to not like parades together. Even in the beginning, when we found ourselves at a parade, we did not love it. It took us a couple years of obligatory attendance at the annual 4th of July parade with our kids to finally admit out loud to each other that we were not having fun. The final straw for both of us was when the parades became campaign events for anyone and everyone getting ready to run for election or re-election. These participants seemed to us to overshadow the kids on bikes they just learned to ride, the floats decorated by various organizations, and the high school marching band. We just could not spend our day watching what divides us on a day when we wanted nothing more than to feel united with our community and country. After a couple more years of enduring the long, hot, procession of people and vehicles, we surveyed the children’s desire to attend, and when we knew we were all in the same camp, we stopped going. Not going to a parade was such a lovely tradition and way to spend the morning of July 4th at home, slow, having coffee, not being in a crowd on a hot summer day. I remember Edmond announcing in full animation and cheer to our children over breakfast, “Guess where we are not going after breakfast? …. The parade!” And our kids would squeal and laugh and join his drama.
In fact, Edmond and I took it a step further because why do anything half-way. Over coffee on the deck or in our bed, we would talk about how miserable, how hot, loud, and crowded it must be at the parade. We did not do this for a minute or two, sometimes I think we talked shit about the parade for quite a while, maybe even into our second cup. Misery you are not experiencing is a way to bond deeply and laugh together, and we relished in it as we imagined all the happenings on the main streets of town.
To be clear, our fervor for parade-hating did not include attacks on participants or those truly enjoying the procession. For those who loved it, we wished them well. Our bashing of this American ritual was not unpatriotic. We both rooted for democracy and the great experiment of this country from the comfort of our home with a perfect cup of coffee in hand. And, we did not dream of ending the longstanding tradition of what so many people clearly enjoy. We were/are huge proponents of the freedom of expression. Besides, if there was not parade, our morning coffee ritual on the birthday celebration of our nation would also be over; and we really liked steeping in our tradition of not attending the parade.
On a walk in a steady rain this morning with my dog Bayou, I recalled this tradition of not going to the parade. I walked the roads near my home because getting to Blue Hole Park could have been challenging due to parade attendees (assuming it was still happening even in the light rain). When this memory first hit, tears welled up in my eyes and flooded my cheeks. My heart ached for him in the old way he once was. Crossing the creek before turning up the road to my house, I remembered going to watch fireworks in the town where Edmond and I both graduated high school, and where my parents still live. The town had changed and grown so much since the early 90s, so watching a firework show had become an ordeal that involved driving across town to the high school, getting on a school bus shuttle to the park that was across the highway from my parents’ neighborhood. Our toddlers were excited; it was a great display and a long, crowded, late trek back (via the school bus shuttle to our car) to my parents’ home that night. The bursts of light in the sky brought bursts of joy to our children and made the heat, crowds, and travel worth it.
Simplicity, when it is an option, was our preference. We found secret spots near our home or from our property to see fireworks without having to endure parking, long walks, and big crowds. Sometimes, we got sparklers and had a very simple light show on the driveway with a water bucket nearby. There was just nothing else like seeing those lights in the eyes of our children.
I remember watching 2-year-old Summer, perched on my father’s shoulders, in awe as the fireworks burst above us at Disney World. I am not even sure I looked up to directly experience the show, but instead took in the glow of blue, green, red, and gold on her cheeks and in her unblinking eyes. Seeing her pure enjoyment was my firework show that night. My divorce had only been finalized a month or two before, and being in the magic of a firework display was exactly what we all needed.
One memory on my walk led to another. The first memory about parade-hating hurt like hell. I wanted to curl up and cry, and call it a day. But then the moments kept coming, bursting like fireworks in my mind. Surely there is a purpose behind spontaneous memories, these involuntary autobiographical memories, beyond bringing me to tears and smiles. These memories, if I do not dam up the flow, often become involuntary memory chains. Some are anchor points, that have the capacity to lead me down various connected memories, linked by emotions, smells, sights or sounds. Some moments pop up that I have not thought of since they occurred. These anchor memories can unearth places in my mind that have been undisturbed for decades.
These unexpected moments from the past arrive. They are part of our grieving bringing the past into the present to cast a wider view of the future we have not yet stepped into. These memories that haunt at times are part of the integration of who we are becoming. They are a way to tell the stories to ourselves and to those we love. These are the stories I want to share with my children, and soon a granddaughter.
Allowing the chain of memory to continue, I remember 4th of Julys spent with my extended family in South Louisiana. One year, my Aunt Lulu made matching red, white, and blue sundresses for my cousin Amy and me. Another year, the summertime holiday was humid-hot, mosquito-buzzing-cicadas-singing hot, not-a-cloud-in-the-sky hot. My aunt’s house in the country surrounded by my uncle’s rice fields was crowded with relatives of every age and food from every category of Cajun cuisine. We made peach ice cream in a hand-cranked ice cream maker with ice and rock salt. I am making peach ice cream today on this rainy 4th in my country town. Memory chain continues.
Memory chains are a way through this day, another holiday when I miss Edmond dearly. Memory chains are a bridge toward a future unfolding. Memory chains pull the past into the present and invite in possible futures. Next year this time, my oldest daughter will be the mother of a ten month old. I will be a grandmother. This little being has already carved out a space in our hearts, and causes me to imagine life with her here: walking through the garden, telling her the names of herbs, letting her taste the basil, oregano, and mint, reading her the books I read to my children from the new rocking chair on the front porch, and following her lead as she discovers bugs in the grasses. Children have a way of changing everything, even before they have fully arrived.
Children, especially when they are curious and excited, are very convincing. When I was pregnant with my third child, our family was at Kemah Boardwalk in Seabrook, Texas where there are various rides, games, and restaurants. My oldest was so eager to get on a ferris wheel. Caught up in his joy and desire, I followed him, my husband, and our two year old into the open container of the giant moving wheel. Only after we began to move toward the top of the ride did I remember I hated ferris wheels. I gripped the railing, held onto my two-year old, took a breath, and found the contagious joy in my son’s face. Perhaps this granddaughter will love parades. Maybe she will easily convince me to take her, and I will love watching the beads of sweat glisten on her smiling and pink cheeks as she waves at all the parading people. If she loves parades, I am positive I will too, and we will have a new tradition.
*Stay tuned. Book announcement coming soon.