MEMORIES - THE THREAD OF LIFE

Our memories are like a thread that runs through our life, providing an element of continuity and enabling us to carry the past with us as we make our way through the years.  If our lives were books, memories would be the table of contents, directing us to a particular place and time. 

It was only after I reached adulthood that I realized how fortunate I was to have the parents and family that I did, and as a result, with very few exceptions, I have only good memories.  Not everyone has been so fortunate, and I wonder how people deal with the pain and sorrow of bad memories as they make their way in life.  Can they coexist with happiness and better circumstances, or do they have to be repressed and forgotten. 

Memories can help us understand whom we are, by showing us where we have been, revealing how the person we are has unfolded from what we were.  They enable us to see the past with the wisdom of gathered years, often revising our impressions and allowing us to see what we may have  missed the first time around.

I cherish my memories, holding them fast and close to me, even more as the years accumulate (something they inevitably do).  I’m aware that the very old seem to go back into time, reliving the distant past.  That gives me comfort; I look forward to pulling up long forgotten stories.

MEMORIES

It seems to be universal, the older we get the more we want to remember out past, and the events and circumstances that helped create who we are.  Memories become increasingly important, and we cherish them, albeit selectively.  Psychologists are quick to remind us that our memories have been filtered by time, and cannot be taken as literal historic truths.  My feeling about this is “so what”.  Filtered, selective, or whatever, their importance to my understanding of who I am cannot be denied, and they will always remain a vital part of my journey.

 

I recently joined two facebook groups that are devoted to sharing memories of growing up in Wilmington Delaware.  It is obvious from the comments and photos posted that the memories are cherished stories, and like dominoes, each story elicits another, as old memories are shaken loose. I was 30 years old when we moved to Wilmington in 1969 and lived in the city for 17 years. But some of the most intense and life changing years of my life occurred in that city when I recognized that I wanted to pursue a life in art as much as I did in medicine.

I don’t have memories of buying candy as a child at Govatos, or shopping with my mother at Wilmington Dry; but I have memories of how I walked the streets downtown with my camera and sketchbook, fascinated by Govatos, Wilmington Dry, and the architecture of local shops and businesses.  I remember the delight in painting these places and the response of people who saw them.  My memories of Wilmington are in my artwork.  Each painting reminds me of a place, a time, and often someone long forgotten, and when I share them on these groups, they often evoke similar memories in others.  And that pleases me.

THINKING ABOUT MUSIC

Acrylic of violin

Music has the power to transport us to a different place, mentally, emotionally, and spiritually.  Sometimes it is the lyrics and/or story, and other times the melody or the voice that takes us back in time by inciting vivid memories of people, places, and events.  But the results are the same; we am pulled into the world of the heart and soul and lifted above life’s daily fray.  I find comfort, inspiration, and encouragement when I allow the music to enter deep within me.

Music can transform loneliness into solitude, grief into sweet sadness, and hopelessness and despair into resolve and determination.  It can evoke memories, sad, and joyful; depending on the music and the circumstances, it can touch the entire range of our emotions.  It is now possible to arrange music into specific playlists to fit one’s current mood or circumstances.  I like to hear Pavarotti’s voice fill the room when I’m working in the studio or cooking pasta, even though I have no idea what he is saying.  Not only is he a silent (or not so silent) link to my mother, (she loved his music) but the sound of his voice seems to belong with my work.

I know nothing about the science of music and cannot discern or appreciate all the variations and nuances of the craft of making music.  My taste in music is very eclectic, determined almost entirely on the emotional response it evokes in me.  It is not unusual for me to be totally clueless regarding the lyrics in a song that I like, but this does not prevent me from enjoying the music by making up my own.

I have learned the value of taking the time to sit in the stillness of my room and allow myself = my soul – to bath in the music’s balm.

Uncle Tony and uncle Alfred

MEMORY LANE...CONTINUED

Still stuck on the same course...waiting for the muses to pull (or push) me off onto something new. But until that happens I will continue to enjoy these sketching sessions with old photos and memories.


Chadds Ford PA...pen & ink and markers


Boston's Northend...pen & ink and markers


Chadds Ford PA...pen & ink, markers, and pastel

DOUGHNUTS

I cannot recall what triggered this memory, which goes back to early years, probably age 7, 8 or so. The dark green paneled bakery truck, driven by Frank Pulmonari, would drive up to the back door of the house, and I would run outside to greet it with my mom. He would open the back doors, exposing the floured finished wooden platform, covered with freshly baked loves of aromatic Italian bread. There was no “American bread “(sliced white bread), If you wanted that, you had to go to the grocery store. I recall that wonderful bread wistfully; wishing I could relive that experience, but back then it was not the bread that interested me. No...my eyes were on the large drawers that shared the space beneath the platform and the floor of the truck, more specifically, the drawer on the left side. It was this drawer that, when pulled open, revealed those absolutely wonderful doughnuts. Thick, soft doughnuts covered with powdery sugar and filled with the most delicious jelly and cream that was ever made by anyone, anywhere. I would look at my mother with pleading eyes, and if I was lucky, she would nod to the driver and we would fill a bag with a selection of the those powdery treasures.

I don’t remember when the truck stopped coming by. Several years later Frank Pulmonari was shot and killed by a deranged family member, along with several other members of the family. That was BIG news for our little town.

I like Dunkin Doughnuts, in fact there are very few doughnuts that I don’t like. But if I had a choice....oh how I would love to see those doors open and that big drawer pulled out before me.

THE CHICKS

Every February we would receive a batch of newly hatched chicks which were placed in the freshly cleaned-and I mean scrubbed cleaned- coop. It is worth taking the time to describe that cleaning process.

The first order of business was to remove all the chickens and chicken shit in the coop. It was simple mindless labor. The truck was backed up to one of the doors and the CS was shoveled onto the truck bed. The first half of the job was relatively easy because the CS in the body of the coop was loose and dry. But once cleared, we had to clean out under the wire racks where the slept, and here everything was wet, heavy and packed, in addition to being further away from the doors to the truck. It was also home for numerous rats, so our little rat terrier had a grand old time. The dust was awful, and we didn’t know enough then to wear protective masks. I was not surprise some 40 years later when my chest xray showed signs of old histoplasmosis.

After the last bit of manure was removed, the coop was washed down with soap and water, removing all remnants of manure and dirt in preparation for the final stage of cleaning. In the 40s and 50s creosote was not considered hazardous, and was readily available for my father to use to “disinfect” the coop. In typical fashion, he had a special contraption made to complete this task. A large galvanized trash can was fitted with wheels and handles so it could easily be moved about like a wheelbarrow. Within the can was a hand pump and sprayer, and when filled with the nasty creosote, it was possible to spray the entire interior of the coop. As I remember, I did most of the pumping and my father handled the sprayer. It did not take long for us to recognize an obvious problem with creosote, it burned the skin, and thereafter we covered all exposed skin with a heavy application of noxzema which proved to be only partially effective. I’m not sure just what “germs” my father hoped to eliminate with the creosote, but I can’t imagine anything surviving after our “treatment”.

With the coop all cleaned (sterilized?), the next step was setting up the stoves to keep the newly hatched chicks warm. For a few years we used small coal burning potbellied stoves with a large round galvanized hood, but later replaced them with special heat producing lamps. Around the stove and extending out about 24 inches from the edge of the hood a bedding of Staysdry was spread over the concrete floor. (a thick straw and fine wood chip combination that I don’t believe is available any longer.) The bedding was contained by a twelve inch high metal ring with a diameter of about six feet encircling the entire area. We usually had six to nine of these “nurseries” set up, always in the same coop.

With the heat on, the young chicks were literally dumped out of their boxes into their nurseries where they immediately gathered all together beneath the hoods producing a carpet of yellow fuzz. They quickly discovered where the feed and water containers were placed and would venture away from their self imposed cluster long enough to fill their tiny gullets.

Of all my memories from the farm, nothing compares to the the pure joy of going into that coop on a bitter cold February day and experiencing the combination of the warmth and the sweet smell of the chicks, enhanced by the sound of their peeping and the touch of their fuzzy feathers as they clamored around the hands that provided their feed and water. It was easy to wish you could climb in there with them and lie down under the cozy hood.

LEARNING TO WORK

One of my father’s oft repeated admonition to me was, ”learn to work” by which he really meant learn how to work, and on our farm that meant knowing what to do and when to do it. It was also important to understand why the work had to be done, and the consequences of not doing it and/or not doing it right.

I’m not sure how old I was when I was officially expected to perform certain chores, as well as being available to my father to help with the constant demands of the farm. I would guess about 9-10 years old. During the school year I was expected to perform after school chores, usually lasting about one and a half hours, as well as Saturdays and occasionally Sunday mornings. The amount of work varied with the time of year-less in the winter and more in the summer. During summer vacations my father asked that I be available to him for a half a day, so I could usually have part of each day to myself. Looking back I can appreciate how he balanced my need to accept responsibility with my need for childhood freedom.

The usual daily chores consisted of collecting eggs after school and on weekends, feeding the chickens (I’ll have more to say about the chickens later), and milking the cow. I loved milking the cow, especially in the winter when I could lay my head against her flank and feel the heat of her body as she warmed the barn. I still believe a barn and its animal during the cold winter days is just about the coziest place one could be. There were always cats and kittens around, and I enjoyed squirting them with the milk to watch them lick each other clean. Another routine chore was helping my mother grade and pack the eggs, something that had to be done daily.

On weekends and during summer vacations there were numerous jobs and projects that demanded attention in addition to the routine chores. But that’s another story.

MILK TOAST & WEDDING SOUP

For reasons I still do not understand, I grew up with an intense dislike for milk and eggs. This was unfortunate, and must have driven my mother crazy, because in addition to almost 10,000 egg laying chickens, we had a milk cow on our farm.
Of course today I like eggs, even the whites, and I will drink milk, although not too often.

But my mother, bless her devious heart, wasn’t the smartest woman in the world for nothing; she knew how to accomplish the impossible. Knowing how much I liked buttered toast sprinkled with cinnamon, she simply served it to me in a shallow bowel, 2 slices neatly cut into inviting pieces, lying in a bowl of warm milk. She was even cunning enough not to serve it too frequently so it remained something special. I cant’t begin to imagine how much milk, warm milk at that, that I consumed with each serving.

So much for the milk; the eggs required a bit more subterfuge. It wasn’t until I was an adult and married with a family of my own that I learned that the white clumps and strings that were always floating in the broth of her wedding soup and in the beans and greens were egg whites and not the cheese that mother told me it was! She was not above telling what she called “white lies

FROM A MEDICAL JOURNAL

Some memories never fade, but retain their same intensity over many years. Was it really 30 years ago (3-78) that I wrote about the death of this sad man? While so many other faces have long since left, his face and his voice remain with me, along with a handful of others, to remind me of a life I have left behind. On the few occasions when I write about patients I have cared for, I change the name to maintain their privacy. But I cannot make myself do that today because I feel it would be a disservice to this man who for so long felt so alone and angry.
*****
Mr. Santoro died today.

May he find the peace and love he felt denied to him while he lived.
I’m sorry Mr.Santoro, truly sorry that I could not make your life a happier one.

You are peaceful now, I have never seen you look so tranquil...
Your face so relaxed.

It is not the face of a dead man.