How We Remember

“And we’ll remember this when we are old and ancient, though the specifics might be vague.  And I’ll say your camisole was a sprightly light magenta when in fact is was a nappy bluish gray.”

     –     Lyric from “July, July” by the Decemberists

I wonder if it’s human nature that makes us romanticize our memories? Or is it just that they need time to mature, like a really good Bordeaux.

The drive home from baseball tonight was kinda tense.  It could have been celebratory.  I mean, after all, The Middle broke out of his hitting slump, going 2-for-3 with a triple and a single, and he made a couple of SWEET digs at first base.  But the ride was not celebratory.  

You see, we missed the block party.  

Now, consider my context.  When I was a kid, if we’d have A) had a block, and B) if that block would have had a party and C) if that block party would have conflicted with a baseball game — there would have been no choice whatsoever, and by that, I mean there would have been no block party.  I’d have called Child Services (if there had even been Child Services back then) had my folks even considered making me miss a baseball game for a stupid block party!

The Middle, though, was genuinely sad about missing the block party.

The conversation ended up getting to the first high school baseball game I ever lost as a starting pitcher — in the first round of the state tournament, 1978, at West Des Moines Dowling.

“Did you cry, Dad?”

“Well, you gotta understand, I was 16 years old then, not 11, Bud.  And yes, I cried like a stinking baby!”

“How would you feel if you would have missed the block party?”

And the truth is, I don’t know how I would have felt.  Not only did we not have a block (they’re hard to come by on farms), or a block party — we remember things differently over time.

We still remember them, but when we’re old and ancient, the specifics get vague.

Had it happened though, I think I’d remember how I felt.  Feelings are more permanent and less subject to color change and romanti-fication.  I remember the events of the game, just a little differently than some of my teammates or others who were there.  Not big differences, but maybe my “magenta” is their “gray” or vice-versa.

But I do remember exactly how I felt after that baseball game.  I remember like it was tonight feeling that I had I let my team down.  That I had let my parents down.  Like I had failed.  I remember wondering if my girlfriend was gonna dump me or if my friends would even want me on the bus on the way home.

But I also how it felt when my folks — a farmer and his wife — asked me if I had done my absolute best — and I remember saying that I had.  I remember them both saying, “That’s all you can do,” and “We’re proud of you.”  And I remember how that felt, too.

So, tonight, frustrated that it was just a stupid block party and tempted to say, “In 30 years, you’ll never even remember that you missed the stupid block party (you know, that class they teach you at Parenting School, “Incredibly Stupid, Insensitive Things to Say When Your Kid Just Needs You to Say, “I Understand”) — instead, I just said, “I’m sorry, buddy.  I know the block party is something that you were looking forward to.  I am proud of the way you played but I also know you’re sad, and I understand.”

“No, you don’t!”  he said.

“I don’t understand why you’re sad, I just understand that you are, and I’m sorry.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Can we get Whattaburger, since I missed the block party because of a stupid baseball game?”

“Yes, we can.”

And a sprightly light magenta hue may have just crept in to a nappy gray night for the world’s tallest 11-year-old.  Or, if I’m really lucky, a difference might have been made.

Thanks to yet one more lesson a farmer and his wife laid down pretty well 36 years ago — that might just tonight have finally sunken in.

You see, sometimes we don’t know we’re making a difference.  Until way after the fact.