Saturday, we visited my family in Central NY. We were up at 4:20AM, out the door by 5:00AM, and rolling into Fabius around 10AM. My great aunt’s service was a intended to be a celebration of life–complete with a bubble maker, jazz music, and fancy red hats attributed to the society of the same name. At the grave-site, we continued the red theme by releasing red balloons. The balloons were whisked away in the breeze and struggled to rise above the treetops before being snagged and entangled in a malicious pine.
In between visiting with relatives, I did a little putzing around with my detector–both at my uncle’s lake cabin and my grandparent’s home in Fabius. I’ve never dug so many mangled twenty-two caliber bullets or vintage pull-tabs. I instantly remembered why I prefer detecting historical sites. Admittedly, I came away with an appreciation for my fellow hobbyists who detect yards and still find joy in the hobby. I would have burned out a long time ago without a history lesson to accommodate my digging practices.
While I was in NY, I was kicked in the face–not literally, I assure you. But there I was–minding my own business–lounging on my grandparent’s couch and reflecting on younger years spent buzzing around with my cousins. Next thing I know, time sneaks up and round-houses-kicks me square in the teeth.
You see, my grandparents used to have an electric organ in the living room. My cousins and I would take turns playing the organ… and I use the term playing very loosely. Mostly, we would hammer on the keys and play the polka program on repeat. None of us could actually dance the polka. We would mostly just thrash around and wave our arms until the adults had the bright idea of unplugging the organ. Then we would sneak into the basement, make a nest of blankets and pillows on the concrete floor, and take turns jumping off the top bunk bed. We were a rowdy bunch….
So, as I’m watching my children ricochet around the living room… I realized that the organ was gone. Apparently the organ had been gone for some time, I just never noticed. But after realizing that the organ was gone, I descended on a downward spiral through my twenty-six years. My trips to NY served as a a lens–providing measurable snapshots of time compared to the everyday trickle of life I was used to.
A few of my cousins and I. (That’s me on the bottom left.)
I remembered skipping down the yellow-brick sidewalk in Chittenango, NY to the local diner–which had long ago been converted to a beauty shop. I remembered playing hide-and-seek with my cousin Amanda–who passed away nine-years ago in a car accident. I remembered picking out our new puppy on the way to visit grandma and grandpa one snowy winter night–that same puppy is now sixteen-years-old. I remembered washing golf balls in the basement with my grandpa while he puffed his cigar–his memory is failing. I remembered going to Barnes & Noble with my grandma and begging for books–now I just download them to my Kindle.
Looking back on my life through these snapshots of time spent in NY, I suddenly realized how precious time really is. Granted–this is not a new realization, more of a deepening realization. In all reality, I think my aunt’s passing may have knocked loose some nostalgia…. or perhaps my impending birthday is tormenting me from next Tuesday.
Time acts like a faucet…trickling away. We can never get those moments back and I’m having a hard time dealing with that… and good gracious, I’m only twenty-six! These are the ramblings of an ninety-something year old reflecting back on their life. In the end, I will never taste another sausage and cheese omelette from that diner in Chittenango. I’ll never again play hide-and-seek with my vibrant, beautiful cousin Amanda. I’ll never make memories over scrubbing golf balls with grandpa–the memories just don’t stick anymore. And I’ll never have my aunt back…
In the midst of stumbling down this treacherous path… I found more meaning in making memories, in sharing memories, and in digging up memories drowned by time. Its no mystery–I’m a sucker for the past. Heck, I even write a blog about digging up the past–of seeking narratives of those who passed before me and have long-since returned ashes to ashes, dust to dust. My visit to NY–if only twenty-eight hours–reinforced my mission to resurrect the past…even if that past isn’t mine.