Strange What You Remember
By John W. Vander Velden
Strange what you remember, and strange when those
memories pop into your head.
Sometimes my childhood memories are little more than a
blur. Just some disconnected moments
that for one reason or another stand out among the uncountable days of my
youth. I remember when I was very young,
of collecting little green apples from beneath a tree in our yard. I would load them in my brother’s toy truck,
which I may or may not have ask to use, and play on the floor of our front
porch. Why that particular moment stands
out I have no idea…but it does.
There are many such glimpses into the gray years of
days long ago. Whether my childhood was
happy or sad would depend upon the mood I carry when I go back to those
days. I am certain there were times of
unbelievable joy and other days as well.
I understand, now, that life is a mix of highs and lows, and childhood
is a complex time.
But I write this post because there was one day that
remains clear in my mind, a day that comes to me often. I was just a couple of weeks passed my tenth
birthday. It was February 20th
1962. The date might stand out to you
historians…more on that later. It was
early, a heavy dew covered the grass, a light mist filled the air. We were moving…again. Everything we had was loaded on dad’s red 49
Dodge truck, with its cattle sides raised and a platform built over the
cab. A big dark olive green patched tarp
covered the whole of it. We had stopped
to say our good byes at the Coughenours, the owners of the farm, in Florida it
was called a ranch, and my father’s employers, and headed out. I remember that I was filled with a mix of
excitement and regret that I would not see those dear people again. I remember riding “shotgun” in our white 59
Chevy Biscayne two door, looking out the window that Tuesday morning, seeing
what had become familiar slipping away.
I remember Duwayne, the neighbor kid wave, his hand barely moving at
waist level, as if he didn’t want there to be a need…for goodbye. And I remember the tears that came to my eye
and the words my mom said. “It’s hard
saying good bye to good people.” Yes it
was. It still is.
There is a great deal more to that memory…to that
day. That old truck, we followed,
couldn’t break 40 miles per hour. It made for a long trip. I remember a stop we made, a radio on the
lunch counter, and how we leaned close for news of John Glenn as he orbited the
earth. But most of all I remember a dark haired boy standing beyond a white
board fence in the early morning mist, a face I have not seen since that day.
(492 Words) 2-22-2017
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