Sometimes things aren’t just things.
There are certain things that are imbued with the life of the person who’s gone. In some cases it’s their favorite possession. Or sometimes it’s just the things they used or touched the most often, or it could even be something they didn’t like at all and they were always complaining about. But what happens is that these things are so connected to the person, just seeing them can elicit a vivid flicker of memory and for a moment, that person is alive.
At least that’s how it is for me.
Dad loved cars. In fact he loved cars so much that, back when he was in college, he stopped going to class and he got a job plus played a lot of poker and he saved up money to buy himself – get this – a Porsche. (I’ll tell you that he later regretted missing all of his college classes, but that’s another story.) And back in a post called See, good things do happen I mentioned that someone had written to me who knew him back in 1974, and she remembered his car.
What kind of college kid drives a Porsche? Answer: My Dad. Here he is sometime in the ’70s.
So recently I was back in the town I grew up in and it was around one o’clock in the afternoon and I drove past the YMCA and turned left past the post office. And a thing about Dad was that he went to the YMCA almost every day around noon and he always parked his car in the same place, right by the post office. So when I found myself, by chance, passing the Y and the post office at one in the afternoon, I couldn’t help but look for his car.
It’s been almost eleven years since he died. And still I looked for his car, a silvery-grey Saab sedan. It was midday by the post office and there was something so deep and desperate in me that just wanted and maybe believed that his car would be there – his car, a symbol of his life, his aliveness.
Of course it wasn’t there.
And it upset me and so what I did was that I pulled over and sat for a while in the quiet and wondered how I could feel this way, after eleven years.
But I’ll tell you this. Yesterday I happened to be driving my brother-in-law’s special edition Volkswagen, a turbo-charged six-speed. Dad would have appreciated this car – because even though he no longer drove a sports car as he had in his youth, he still had this deep appreciation for cars that were built to go fast.
And as I drove, in the roar of that engine and the cushion of the black leather bucket seat, it was almost like Dad was there.
That is an amazing picture. I love the 70s hair to match the car.
Yes. There are great pleasures and memories encompassed and represented by things. While the things themselves don’t actually produce the joy, they aren’t alive, they enable those who interact with them to, and pass those feeling onto others. One man’s junk is another’s treasure, often because of some memory or representation. I feel this way with various kinds of foods or situations as well. For me a baked potato and being on top of a mountain in the snow represents my dad – to someone else this would just seem bland and cold, but to me rich and representative of appreciating life and being alive. A song can do this, a smell, a time of day – so many things can trigger memories and help us appreciate being alive. I think about that when something physical is hard, such as swimming laps. I think to myself, how would my grandfather or my father feel if they could be swimming laps right now if they still could. It pours a whole layer of appreciation and life into what I am doing. So, ya, go rent a 1970 Porsche or Mustang, and when you downshift and feel that amazing rush and power of third gear, you are feeling what he felt, living that rush for him, and for yourself, all at the same time. That’s a beautiful thing to recognize. Thanks for sharing, keep it up. //J
You can drive my Porsche, Fefi, any time. Fefi has a direct connection to your dad, for which I am very grateful, and feel on a regular basis!
BTW … great pic!
Beautiful story. I get it. My dad died when I was 14 (a long time ago) and he loved a white Chrysler with big fins. I’ll always associate him with those cars–a new one every two years. I think of my husband when I drive his tractor (something I learned to do after his death) and when I admire the trees he loved on our land. How they linger. And that’s OK with me.