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I was sitting in the middle, between Dad & Uncle Bob. They both, at one time or the other, owned that El Camino. Lost to memory? Who was behind the wheel, the one that steered us up an oyster shell lane to a well-kept rancher. It was somewhat dark in that large living room, paneled in knotty pine. The material on the old chair was scratchy upon my arm, like burlap. I could hear the rhythm of a fine old clock, gently announcing its presence from just out of sight.
In the air, the smell of good tobacco; not the acrid stench of modern cigarettes, but something mild, comforting. The man of the house spoke, and his voice commanded attention: a throaty baritone that seemed to come up from his feet, through his gut, before passing through his lungs. His wife entered the room, a gentle smile upon her face. Did you ever see a photograph of Mamie Eisenhower? She offered an iced tea, or a snack. The men in the room politely refused; one man’s son sat disappointed, favoring a cookie or, perchance, a Hostess Ding-Dong. I do not recall what exactly was parked out under the carport, but suppose it was a Chrysler Newport, Buick Electra 225, or maybe a big Mercury. Dark blue, like a conservative suit.
I do not know why we were there; it is entirely possibly that what I picture is a composite. Regardless.
I help pass the time at work by seeking background music from YouTube. Among the possibilities: uploads of dusty tape recordings, made off the air. Someone’s favorite disc jockey, spinning someone’s favorite tunes. I am not always so choosy with my genres or time periods, though I have my favorites. Just the other day I found myself reliving 90 minutes of a station out of southern California, from 1985. This time it wasn’t rock and roll, but “easy listening”, and easy it was. A gentle older fellow spoke slowly and clearly, playing Perry Como, Bing Crosby and Jo Stafford. It was, I found, a comfortable place to be.
As comfortable as that childhood memory.
I picture the fellow I met that day, sitting in his den, reading glasses far down the bridge of his nose. He reached over and flicked the knob on his trusty Philco; a moment later, the tubes warmed up and Glen Miller’s Orchestra came to life. An accompaniment to the daily paper or balancing the checkbook. And in the background, yes, that old clock still gently ticked along.
And I sit here today, and I mourn. Mourn someone, though I cannot conjure up a name? Someone I hardly knew? No, not exactly. I mourn...his generation. Those men, those women: they have left us, one by one. Oh, we like to lump folks together with names: Baby Boomer, Generation Y, what have you. I have no idea when that gentleman was born, but it’s quite possible it was before 1900. And our lives, they overlapped. Those folks of the first decade of the 1900’s, or those like my grandfather, children of the teens? They were here, our teachers of life, the pillars of our communities, and suddenly we look around and they are gone. A simple fact, and one that saddens my heart. Sometimes so much I can hardly bear the thought.
The physical things from that long ago etching in my memory? Scattered to the wind, by now. That scratchy chair went to a burn pile. The clock sat eerily silent; now likely hanging in the wall of some antique store. The car was probably crushed long ago, melted into 2 Kias and an electric bike. The Philco in his den? It could very well be in my antique radio collection today, for all I know. What remains is to be treasured, but they can never take the place of what was lost. They are a constant reminder to spend time with my more “experienced” friends today. Uncle Bob? Dear Dad? Born in the early forties, and now both long gone. Guess that means I’m in the driver’s seat, now.
And I’ve got people to visit.
