Relative Something

It was thirty years ago today that Cyndie and I were married in a morning outdoor ceremony in a garden on the shore of Lake Minnetonka.

As milestones go, each decade seems to hold particular significance, so this is our third time to realize that phenomenon. Last night I took a little tour through my Life Story item, a journal of sorts, which I share with the members of my online community, Brainstorms. I was looking for images that I recall having posted there.

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Shocking as it is, there is this one:

It was taken after the wedding, in the moments before we departed for the north shore of Lake Superior on our honeymoon. People have asked me if we were legal age to be married. The good news about that youthful countenance is that it has held true to this day. People continue to assume us to be a lot younger than we are.

We have had an amazing run at this relationship thing. Most dramatic for me was the period when, and since, we sought couples counseling to get past a difficult time. It worked wonders for us.

Now we are on the verge of a whole new aspect for our relationship as Cyndie prepares to move to Boston, while I will remain in Minnesota. We are enjoying looking back over the years and both feel prepared for what the future holds.

It is not the same milestone, but this day is significant for our son, Julian, as well. He was born on this day in the year of our 7th anniversary. It has been special to share the date with him all these years. Happy birthday, Julian!

I watched the NFL Vikings last night in their final preseason game, and this thought occurred to me: I would really like to have 5 huge guys blocking out the hazards that threaten to tackle my progress at work every day.

My father's hat

The National Football League games have changed so much since the days of my youth that I now find them almost unwatchable. But over and over I am drawn to try. American football reminds me of my father. The Minnesota Vikings remind me of my father. There is an amazing bond there. I watch the games.

At a very impressionable age, I became captivated by my home-town team and the Viking athletes that played the games. That fascination rooted deep in my entire being. It brings me little pleasure to see what the sport has become today, but I can’t shake the memories of the fascination. It feels like a part of my soul.

For all the lambasting I do about commercials and advertisements, I remember way too many of them. I guess it is logical. Instead of simply ignoring them, I allow myself to notice them and become annoyed. Then I end up finding the tag lines stuck in my head for the rest of my life.

I suppose the fact that I also am all-too-willing to brag up the few specific ads that I find clever or funny, may contribute to my affliction of “commercial memory” syndrome.

I am afraid that this is a classic case of me not practicing what I preach. I proclaim that the majority of advertising doesn’t deserve our attention. But, then I end up allowing the ads to catch my attention and take me prisoner. It is not something I am proud to admit.

Some of the memorable lines are understandable, for the almost universal attention they garnered:

“Only YOU can prevent forest fires.”

“Where’s the BEEF?”

“A little dab ‘ll do ya!”

“Plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is!”

“Mikey will eat it!”

Why do I also still remember the following lines?:

“Think about it, won’t you?”

“There’s no whipped cream on mine!”

“Haveyougotthe microwave workin’ yet?”

I don’t remember what products these lines were meant to sell, but I still find myself reciting them at various odd times, in informal social settings. It is like having an odd ‘tick’. Only my peers seem to recognize the true origin. Anyone too young to have heard the original commercials must wonder what the heck I mean, as they try to interpret a literal meaning from the phrases.

I guess that could explain the looks I frequently get from them in response to my ramblings.

I finally got myself on the bicycle on Saturday. It was nice to discover the bike remains in good shape. I added air to the tires, touched up the chain with a bit of lube, and it was ready to go. With minimal effort, I was able to find all my gear, although the helmet required a bit of adjustment to the straps in order to fit my head, sans dreadlocks.

I took my camera along and did a spontaneous tour of my community. The trees are just starting to pop. I meandered my way past Bryant Lake toward the place on Flying Cloud Drive where I worked for 18 years. Part of the building still remains, but much of it has been torn down and replaced by something different. I traveled among the buildings of the industrial park that replaced the farm of my earliest years. I rode past the Enblom’s place and then took a lap on the trail around Smetana lake. There were a lot of geese sitting on nests in the reeds along the shoreline.

Next, I traveled past the shopping mall where I worked at a record store for a year after I graduated from high school. Then south on Homeward Hills Road to Pioneer Trail where I ventured past Franlo Road to see if friends were out in their yard doing chores. Nobody home. Looked like they were away for the weekend.

Backtracking, I made my way to the sport fields by the airport where I coached soccer for so many years. I rode into the buzz of the Saturday afternoon activity to get a big dose of memories. I stood for a bit and watched a baseball team work on bunting defense. Repetition, repetition, repetition. It was fun to hear the kids shouting commands to each other, demonstrating they were aware of what they were doing.

The only thing left between that site and my destination of home was the neighborhood where I lived after the farm. I slowly pedaled on Cedar Ridge Road to the cul-de-sac where our house was located. They have changed the house numbers! Is nothing sacred? I tried and tried to see the trees of the neighborhood as 35 years older. It doesn’t look that different, except for the two trees right in front that have been planted since we left. The large number of cedar trees have hardly changed a bit. I’d be willing to bet there are few, if any, of the same families living in those houses.

As I passed the Picha farm spring plant sale, just before the street to my house, I saw that my odometer indicated 25 miles. I accomplished just enough distance, and exposed my unprotected limbs to just short of being burned by the sun, so I felt it was a good first-of-the-season ride.

Now, to somehow get myself to do it again before too long. Sunday, my neck muscles were tired and my seat was feeling tender. I have a lot of work to do to get into shape for my annual week of biking in June.

What little boy doesn’t feel that Mom is everything? It is not so hard to understand why a person would believe that their mother is the best in the world. My mother invented food. She made my clothes. My mom was the rock in all situations; the calm in any storm. Elizabeth (Betty) Elliott Hays did not lecture me on who I should be, she enabled me to become who I am. She demonstrated to me how to be a good person by being a good person. Most of the time, she was oblivious to that fact. Not only was my mother the most wholesomely classy person imaginable, she was the best mother in the world. Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

April is the time of year when I traveled to Nepal. That was a couple of years ago now. It is on my mind a lot this year because I have friends who are currently on a trek similar to mine. When I think back on my trip, and revisit some of the photos I took, the feeling I get is that the whole experience was more than I could absorb. I lived it, but it was more than I could grasp, even as I stood there breathing it in. Looking at the images again, somehow brings back vague hints of the vastness of experience. It almost feels as if the parts of that adventure that were beyond my ability to fully grasp in the moment, were not lost to that moment. Even though I couldn’t fully process it all, it still became part of me. The aspect of the trek that was beyond my comprehension still colors the portion of my life that is the event. The mystery moves forward within me. The same thing probably applies to many such adventures, but to me, it just seems so fitting for an experience in Nepal.

I have already shared this with all of my siblings, and also with my Brainstorms community, so it almost seems redundant to post it here. However, I think it has a universal appeal for the novelty of capturing the similar poses and for the always interesting visual of comparative shots of people when they are young and when they aren’t as young.

I have been wanting to do this for a long time, but younger brother, David, lives up north and older brother, Elliott, wasn’t able to be at our family reunion gathering last summer, so getting the three of us together has been rare.

My family tolerated my attempts to try (probably too hard) to direct the shot to be exact. I thought Elliott should take off his glasses. He disagreed. I respect his opinion that they belong.

In the end, Elliott got the ‘last word’ in about my drive to accomplish a pose exactly the same as the first picture. I only had one image available on my camera when I got home, so after I pasted them together, I sent it out to the family asking if anyone had a better version. I noted that in this image, I didn’t have my shoulders squared to the camera, and with multiple photographers taking pictures, Elliott was looking at a different camera than this one.

Elliott sent this, in reply:

Lately, I have been thinking about the accuracy of memory, in particular, earliest memories. Many are augmented, or even supplanted by photographs we have from the past. I don’t actually remember some things that happened, I remember what it looked like from a picture I have repeatedly seen that depicts the moment.

I recently began tinkering with transferring some of our old home-videos from tape to a digital video file. I do remember this particular moment, but it would never be so genuinely presented if we hadn’t managed to capture the video of it. I’m so glad to have this to show my daughter, Elysa, the fun we had during the time before she can remember.

It’s like a high school reunion, only different. Every year around this time, a group of people who once worked at the same company gather at a pub to check out where the world has taken everyone and to revisit a range of memories. I left that company over 12 years ago after 18 good years of employment. I met some of the smartest people I have ever worked with during those years and I experienced valuable friendships. It is very rewarding to again be able to see some of the people from that time in my life.

I find it puzzling that my memory comes up so absolutely blank on a person that I recognize; someone who I know I had a fair amount of interaction with, and especially for someone I particularly remember liking. I wonder if it had anything to do with the name not being unusual. Last night, it was Jeff, from the Software department. I needed to ask, as embarrassing as that can be, but then we were able to relive some fun, shared recollections of a project we worked together on.

I found myself telling the story of recently cutting off my dreadlocks, and sharing details of Cyndie’s and my adventure of traveling to Portugal to work with Ian and his family at their Forest Garden Estate. I fear that my stories, which are so darn much fun for me to relive, probably go on a little bit longer than my audience really cares to hear. Kind of like my writing sometimes, I suppose. At least here, you have the ability to skim over segments of my excessive verbosity. In person, people have to resort to excusing themselves to use the restroom or needing to go get another beer at the bar.

My memory got some good exercise last night, which is just what I needed. It’s the only exercise I’ve had since I sprained my ankle. It also was the kind of party that provides a real energizing afterglow; also something I needed to help break the sense of exhaustion that the long, hard days in the trenches of the day-job have been dishing out lately.

Speaking of which, even though it’s Saturday, back in the trenches is just where you’ll find me today. Workin’ another Saturday.

My memory tells me there was a time I had weekends off. Ah, those were the good ol’ days.

Continuing on a theme I started yesterday, I am enjoying remembering being a little boy. Also, I like inspiring my siblings’ memories with snapshots from our past. In honor of the start of baseball season, I dug up this little gem.

I think I was being groomed early on to be a Twins fan. Don’t I just look extraordinarily excited for the season to be underway? My family will remember that spot as the stairs leading up to the center circle of the driveway on the farm. They will also probably recall that my apparent glee of that moment was likely short lived, and I would have found something to brood about soon after.

I loved playtime of my youth. And what a playground we had on that farm. Riding my tricycle on that long driveway. Digging in the dirt of the center circle to play with my toy trucks. Going on adventures down to the chestnut tree or the old tennis court. The chicken coop that had been turned into a clubhouse. The barns. The back yard where we had worn out our own ‘home plate’ into the grass.

I guess I’ll reveal, I’ve been working on the old slide show of the farm that I set to music, converting it from video tape to a digital file I can manipulate and post, and it has contributed to my recent reliving of the past. Maybe someday in the near future I will be able to trigger more memories with a revised version of the farm slide show that can be seen online. It all depends on my ability to hurdle a few technological obstacles that lie in the path toward my goal. I’m not feeling as spry as I once was with these kinds of projects, and my much more new-tech savvy son no longer lives at home, so the odds of succeeding in a timely fashion right now are low.