Remembering

There are times, moments really, when I am reminded of something far back in time. My time, that is. Like when I was five or six years old. The other day something reminded me of a moment in Altadena, California. I was playing outdoors, across the street. Standing in front of the Bernards home, I was looking east. New York Drive was mostly deciduous trees in that direction, but the continued columns of tall palm trees lined the street for miles. The other direction, toward the west, the palms were interspersed with large pine trees, 20 to 40 feet high. Over my left shoulder was our house. Behind it were the San Gabriel mountains. Ever present to me, they had become every day and not especially noticed. To visiting cousins, they were giant piles of dirt. They lived in Minnesota so anything, but flatland was expected.

I don’t recall what brought this memory to mind. But I could almost smell and feel the southern California air. I began recounting the names of the families that lived nearest to us – Bernard's, Batterson's, Dionne’s, and so forth. Funny what we remember and to what detail. The mystery remains, though, what triggered the memory?

I can sit in an office with the window or door open. The sound of passing traffic and angled light will do something that reminds me of something that happened 50 years ago! Why is that?

Some friends think my memory is amazing. I don’t think so, mainly because it happens so often.

I have had an interesting and perhaps unusual history. We lived in many places as I grew up. California, including a stint of 3 years on the Mojave Desert, Berkshire Hills in Massachusetts, central New York in Syracuse, downstate Illinois for college, and metro Chicago for the remainder of my life. Each location has its specific memory base and oddities. Searching for the definition of life and my own identity often involved complex questions and thinking. This process has been a constant in my life. Perhaps that is why I write? And remember the past so vividly.  Who knows for sure?

Being gay throughout my life surely has something to do with this. At an early age, I knew something about me was different. Perhaps wrong. Couldn’t talk about it with anyone. Didn’t have the vocabulary with which to talk about it anyway. Something different. Remember this was the 1940’s and 50’s. Today the language and discussions are much more present.

As I traversed my growing up years, the issue of sexual identity became more insistent but still a forbidden topic. The hiding of self and exclusion was a constant. Not easily shed at any time of life, really, but I was able to dump the hiding and exclusion. Even at 82, I struggle with this, so the shedding is not yet complete.

Examining life in detail is perhaps a constant in my life that triggers memories. I suspect I will never fully understand this.

July 14, 2025