Visits to the past

 

Picture just because I liked it.
Hope it's apt.

I went back to the past twice yesterday and today, and I guess what I learned is that it is never the same—good, but not the same. Yesterday, Melinda, who worked with me for over ten years at TCU Press and became a special friend, picked me up for an outing to the TCU Press Christmas book sale and then lunch. I worried a lot about the physical aspects of this—tiny though she is, Melinda drives a huge SUV. Would I be able to get up into it? (It was touch and go at first, but then I mastered it, except poor Melinda had to fetch a stepstool and my walker every time I got out—I was afraid she’d swear she was never going anywhere with me again; she has denied that). Then I worried about the long hallway and rather steep ramp at the alumni center. I made it down the ramp just fine, by holding on to the railing with one hand, while Melinda parked the car. Then it turned out we were in the wrong part of the building, and I had to turn around and go right back up that blasted ramp. But it too was okay.

The book sale was a nostalgia trip for me. I barely knew the staff that were there, but I met the new marketing manager, with whom I had some correspondence, and we had a good visit. I’m hoping to get with him after the holidays, because I want to tell him about some programs we did in the past. But the big thing to me was browsing the books for sale, recalling this title and that, the work that went into them, the authors I’d worked with. Reminded me of a really good time in my life, with work that made me happy. Sad that several authors have now left us—and proof that I am getting older, as if I didn’t already know that. I spent two dollars and came away with four books, three of which I meant as gifts. Gave Jordan hers, only to find out they already have it.

Lunch was great. Melinda and I always have lots to talk about and laugh heartily, from family doings to politics—okay, the latter is not so funny. But we have a great time getting caught up. And we splurged—had wine with our lunch, and I had a lobster Cobb salad. Good, but the lobster was watery, like it had just been defrosted.

Tonight, Jean and I went to the Tavern for supper—sat on the patio, because it is quieter and the weather was balmy, though we are expecting storms later tonight. I had the hamburger I’ve been craving for days. We ordered a fire-roasted artichoke for an appetizer but almost couldn’t eat it—way too much pepper. After dinner, we went on an extended tour of several neighborhoods to look at the Christmas lights. Sometimes they all blur together, sort of look-alikes, so it was fun to find a house here or there with imaginative and different decorations. We agree we are both fans of lights but not blow-up Santas and related figures.

On one street in Berkeley, my neighborhood, all the houses have pitched roofs, some with more than one pitch and all outlined in white lights. Made a real cool picture when you looked down the street. Jean’s favorite, ever year she says, is a tree on Colonial Parkway that is decorated with rather delicate purple lights and then strings let hanging loose from the tips of branches, sort of like a weeping plant basket.

It was particularly fun for me to ride through Berkeley because I could tell Jean who lives there and what the history of that house is, the house designed by the first woman architect recognized in Texas and the only true art deco house in the neighborhood. I realize I’ve lived in Fort Worth over fifty-five years and spent almost thirty of them in Berkeley.

I guess nostalgia is one of the joys aging brings. At this time of year—and many other times—I look back on a lot of good memories. My life has been full of memory-making incidents, large and small, and I am grateful. Tonight, looking at lights, I remembered countless trips to join the bumper-to-bumper traffic around Luther Lake where there were the most creative lights and their reflection in the water made them extra special. For the kids, each year it was a new and wonderful experience all over again. Tonight, because I hadn’t gone light-looking in several years, it was once again new and wonderful.

I remember other magic moments at Christmas—the look on a grandchild’s face during the Christmas Eve candlelight service when the sanctuary was darkened and everyone raised a candle as they sang, “Silent Night, Holy Night.” The look on children’s faces when first allowed to the tree on Christmas morning—by then they’d been awake and impatient a long time, having to wait for the adults to get going. Christmas always was and always will be magic. Despite the fact that all the little ones in my family are teens, I look forward to new memories this year.

And then, there is always reality. I just read a post where Facebook wanted to share my memories. From ten years ago, it said Jacob arrived in a grumpy mood and told me how mean I was. Win some lose some, but even that is a treasured memory.