I'm sure there are statistics on such things, but today it seemed my memories ranged well over a span of forty years. A conversation about soda flavors reminded me of grocery shopping with my dad-- we'd buy the store brand sodas at ten for a dollar; my brother and sister and I would each get to pick three and my dad would choose the tenth; it was always cream soda. Back then you needed an actual can opener to enjoy your soda; pop tops were a thing of the future.
Later in the day a colleague was describing his summer trip to Italy, and I was transported to the upstairs bar in Florence. That was the secret place that all the kids at my Swiss boarding school went to drink whenever they were there. The tequila sunrises were legendary, with gorgeous layers of fresh-squeezed orange juice and grenadine. They were the only alcoholic beverage I ever saw my Southern Baptist friend drink.
And not thirty minutes later, I remembered being at the end of the bench during the final girls basketball game ten years ago. Three minutes from an undefeated season, we were down by a few points against a school that in most years beat us pretty badly. Of all teams I've coached, I remember those girls for their heart. We won it at the buzzer. It turns out that one of my students now has a cousin who played for us then. I found that out by reading the profile piece that her classmate had written.
I love the poem On Turning Ten by Billy Collins. I don't consider it a melancholy meditation on aging at all, but rather a parody of those who stare wistfully out the window wondering where the years have gone. Once, when I couldn't sleep, I tried to remember one thing from every year of my life. I think I drifted off before I finished revisiting my twenties.
Later in the day a colleague was describing his summer trip to Italy, and I was transported to the upstairs bar in Florence. That was the secret place that all the kids at my Swiss boarding school went to drink whenever they were there. The tequila sunrises were legendary, with gorgeous layers of fresh-squeezed orange juice and grenadine. They were the only alcoholic beverage I ever saw my Southern Baptist friend drink.
And not thirty minutes later, I remembered being at the end of the bench during the final girls basketball game ten years ago. Three minutes from an undefeated season, we were down by a few points against a school that in most years beat us pretty badly. Of all teams I've coached, I remember those girls for their heart. We won it at the buzzer. It turns out that one of my students now has a cousin who played for us then. I found that out by reading the profile piece that her classmate had written.
I love the poem On Turning Ten by Billy Collins. I don't consider it a melancholy meditation on aging at all, but rather a parody of those who stare wistfully out the window wondering where the years have gone. Once, when I couldn't sleep, I tried to remember one thing from every year of my life. I think I drifted off before I finished revisiting my twenties.
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