None of my friends realize it, but I’m an out-of-control control freak. People would be amazed to know that I can analyze the scene, actions and subtext of almost any situation and try to manipulate the outcome— yet always appear to be blissfully uninvolved. All right, so maybe I’ve got a little problem, but we’re working on it...
This week’s visit to the parents gave me an opportunity to practice letting go. It was supposed to be our usual grocery run, but then I was informed that there were also prescriptions to fill; on top of that, my dad needed a haircut, and my stepmother would have to make a trip to the bank. I take the new developments in stride, but then Jeannie complicates things by trying to make them easier: “Why don’t you drop me off at the bank, then I’ll walk to the store and get started on the shopping while you take Gene for his haircut. Then you can come back and meet me at the store.”
I struggle with myself briefly before saying, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to walk alone from the bank across the parking lot…there are people who target seniors in banks, and—“
We end up compromising. We all go to the bank, then walk with Jeannie to the market and make sure she’s safely inside before driving to Great Clips. In case we have to wait, I’ve brought a book to share with my father: When Blanche Met Brando, by Sam Staggs, a comprehensive history of one of my dad’s favorite plays, “A Streetcar Named Desire.”
While we’re waiting, we look at the book together. I open to the photographs showing various film stills and stage shots; he stares at them intently. There’s a picture of Jessica Tandy and Hume Cronyn. “They were artists in residence at Stanford when I was there,” he says. “I worked with her.” I ask if he saw Tandy in the Broadway production pictured, from 1947. “Yes, that’s when I saw it,” he answers.
Looking again at the photos of Jessica and Marlon in their prime, my father shakes his head sadly. “What is it?” I ask. “They’re so young…” he whispers, a note of disbelief in his voice. The unspoken words hang between us: “And then they got old, and now they’re dead. And soon I’ll be gone too.”
He is called up for his haircut, rescuing us from the moment of sadness and loss. The young semi-goth woman cutting his hair has purple highlights amid her own dark locks, but my dad seems untroubled, remembering her from the last time he was here. He looks small and frail in the chair, and I think of the times he sat waiting for me when I was a child getting my hair cut.
Other memories crop up later, when we’re back at the supermarket. Standing at the pharmacy counter, I recall my first job as delivery boy for a local drug store. My father adds, “And there was one time you walked through water to deliver somebody’s prescription.” I’m taken aback—he’s retained something I've completely forgotten about. Then, commenting on the strange quirks of human memory, I ask if he remembers the dog we had briefly when I was very young. He ponders for a moment, and then says he doesn’t—until I remind him of the dog’s name—Thor. Instantly, my dad responds, “We called him Thor to help you with your T-H sound.” Again, I’m awestruck by the revelations, at details both remembered and forgotten.
People have told me fairly often that I have an excellent, if occasionally selective, memory. It’s true—I remember details that came up casually in conversation decades earlier. On the other hand, I’ve reviewed letters or journal entries from my youth, and sometimes have no recollection of the events described.
It rattles me to think of part of my life as—simply gone. Our stories and memories form the biggest part of who we are. And hard as it is to accept, over the long term, memory is one of many things I will have no control over.
