Saddle Sore: Something to write about

From the depths of subconscious memory come visions of the past, days of our lives, so the poet said, that cannot be forgotten or erased. Today or yesterday, it doesn’t matter: They exist in a soothing, nostalgic way. 

Pulling up in front of the house, in my inside eye, the street is deserted, a continuous, blank swath of asphalt cracked here and there, as though we arrived in another dimension. It is lined, some houses more than others, with dogwood elms, bright with the green of early spring. Sitting back from the street a respectable distance is a single-story example of finely-detailed, late-1940s, upscale suburban architecture, neatly updated over the years. Clothed in loneliness, as if my memories have moved on with those who once lived there, there’s a missing link of reality, incomprehensible, but clearly, I see their faces. In the windblown dust of my mind, the house is empty, lawn cared for but deadly quiet inside. It’s big, and as in a dream, trying to find the living room where we sometimes visited is impossible, but the kitchen, where so much of a house holds activity, is immediately recognizable and holds some colorful memories.

Spring break, flying stand-by like the college student I am, although on the last leg, I’m bumped up to first-class, next to a marvelous, chatty, beauty queen of some import, vying for Miss Texas. Why? It happened on this flight and another, same scenario, months later.

A sophomore English major, with “Another Country” by James Baldwin firmly in hand as though it’s a badge of courage. It’s the beginnings of the Civil Rights movement, but for a young man who grew up in the Woody Creek mountains, I have no real understanding of what underlying racial angst the book might signify. There is a desire to march in solidarity, just human, not political. My freshman roommate in college was black, a fellow football player. Our families became friends.     

Glorious, salt-infused breezes from the large bay, a few blocks off the center of the metropolis, enhanced by the smell of backwater inlets, warm, quiet evening overtaking the city; the sound of dress shoes and high heels on concrete walkways; glass doors leading to the elevator, up, up and away to the top-floor private club. Steinway grand piano on a small, raised platform, spotless, carrying a well-polished glisten, with a view over the entire dining room. Relaxed over the keys, no stage fright, playing a short set at the invitation of my hosts. Later, home, tucked in at the pool house by the reason for my visit. My new island for a few days.

Is this a deep-seated attempt at letting go, or could it be a long overdue acknowledgement and appreciation for a very short time in my life? Is it an apology or part of an attempt to make amends? My subconscious didn’t let me in deep enough to thoroughly examine this. A colleague wondered if maybe it portended my upcoming demise. Good luck with that. The Grim Reaper will have to be more creative.

However, it is a strong memory that just recently made its depth and presence known; it does not have anything to do with trauma or unpleasantness; my times there were most pleasurable and very important in my younger life. 

Other memories zap my consciousness from time-to-time, things I don’t usually write about, such as long-ago piano recitals, quiet parties in homes surrounding Hallam Lake. Just memories of women I have known might be enjoyable to write about, but the editorial board could possibly nix some of them. No doubt, some of the women would prefer that didn’t happen. Look for my next book. 

After more than 20 years writing this column, the man at the keyboard sometimes urgently needs something to write about. 

But mostly, it’s those salt-infused breezes and the accompanying smells that tie me to the unforgettable house and people so agreeably, they cannot be forgotten. And a woman.

Tony Vagneur writes here on Saturdays and welcomes your comments at ajv@sopris.net.