Memory, at least my memory, seems to be a set off by trip wires. They are tripped by walking into them accidentally setting off wonderful explosions of memory. Explosions can be small, inconsequential, while others are large, and open gaping holes, buried long ago, reopened. The trip wire is set off by an event. The event was a scene from a recently watched movie. In the scene there was a music box that played Clair De Lune by Claude Debussy. I walked right into the trip wire, and kept walking, and then the explosions started.

When I was 10 years old, or thereabouts, I summerd in northern Minnesota with my maternal grandparents Henry and Nellie Alm. They lived on 11th Crow Wing Lake in Akeley. Summers were magical, my parents would drop me off for a week or two and on a few occasions, one month. It was a relief for me, being the oldest, to escape from my scolding mother and four other siblings that I alternatively babysat, played, or fought with. The din of everyday life in our home was overwhelming, I enjoyed the respite of the north woods with my grandparents. My grandmother had a music box, I remember it well, it was green, oval in shape, with ornate velvet finishings and wrap. When I opened it, which was often, it played a mysterious tune that I did not know, but liked very much. Only later did I learn the name of the tune, Some Enchanted Evening, from the musical South Pacific. By that time in my life I had a powerful attraction to music, I was mesmerized by the melody, lyrics, and especially the orchestration. I used to open that music box, wind it up, and play that song often. It teleported me to a feeling that was indescribably delicious. Time stood still, and my imaginative mind opened to all of the possibilities that lay in front of me, the immediate and future. All thought and feeling coalesced into an instantaneous flash of light in my head. Just for a moment I felt truly human, with second sight, creativity, imagination, and gifted with a confident, calm, and positive view of myself and the world.

Fast forward 10 years to 1973. I am sitting in the basement of a small rambler in Richfield Minnesota watching South Pacific on the TV in the home of a young woman of 17 that I barely knew. I can’t remember all the details of our meeting but I have a vague memory that runs through my High School pal Jon Mestad who was dating a Richfield girl, Beth Hengen. Jon and I went to High School in Bloomington and Richfield was the adjacent suburb. Beth was the daughter of Bill Hengen, a sports writer at the big newspaper in town, The Mpls Star-Tribune. It seems like that I met Vonnie (Veronica) Pyzinski through Jon and his connection with Beth. Anyway, Vonnie and I were engaged in a furious make-out session watching this movie in her basement. It was all great, the movie was wonderful and the make-out session was inspiring, filled with the hapless romanticism of adolescence and the requisite restraint from recklessness and totally wild abandonment. It was the sweet spot of romantic love, all the feelings and desire, with a few actions thrown in to heighten the intensity, all driven by a great musical, with a fantastic sound track.

I wanted the music box after my Grandma passed in 1984. I was never one to speak up for myself, and never felt I deserved much, so when the last few personal items were left I did not speak up for the music box. I should have, but those types of personal requests were seen by my Mother as unseemly and beneath me. I demurred and the music box was passed to a cousin and lost forever. I learned much later in life that my mothers aspirations for me, similar to her own personal aspirations, were unattainable, and I lived my life knowing that I was somewhat of a disappointment to her, and was a disappointment to myself. I responded by acting out in ways that, in the end, only hurt myself. I still think about the music box and the message in the lyrics of the song. I was taught from an early age that life was an event, like a movie, something to observe and manipulate when possible. and controlled ——but that song said something different to me. It spoke to the enchantment and the mystery of life. Where do life and memory come from or even why, it’s random and the only job we have is to recognize

the moment, live it, and grab it when it happens our way. In essence, true happiness can only be achieved by living in this moment and from moment to moment. Regret and guilt are the wages of living too much in the past while fear and anxiety can result by too much projection into the future.

My daughter became very interested in musicals when she came of age. Ellie fixated on trifles like High School Musical, and Grease as a Junior High Student. She graduated to the big stuff , like Hamilton, Rent, and others when she was in High School. I lived a second life through her, in many ways she is her fathers daughter. I was so proud to see her in the musicals in school, and when she built a playbill wall in her bedroom. She went to New York to take in Broadway, and went to musicals in downtown Minneapolis at the grand stages like the Orpheum and the State. I introduced her to South Pacific, we watched it together sitting on the couch in the living room. I had not heard the song for many years by that time, but in an instant was I was transported to a better place when it started. I can’t explain it, there are no sufficient words, and I did not tell my daughter the music box stories, I will keep that for myself. Ellie can read all about it after I’m gone, and the music box stories can be expanded and enlarged through her.

I love this life, but I do go on. There is no interest in my stories anymore, just the ramblings of an old fool. My wife can barely hide her disdain, as her eyes roll in contempt. However, she is judicious in her comments, striking the correct tone of politeness, hidden by what she has convinced herself is a believable facade to me. I do wonder why she does this —— but she is the great peace maker in the family, using every one of her considerable skills to keep communication lines open between all of us. My children are in college or have graduated and show almost no interest in me, and much less in my stories, which makes me very lonely and sad. I try to fill the void.

I still do it. I drive down the street and see our house in the old neighborhood. I pass my elementary, junior high, and high school and drive down the streets of my youth. Valley View Park where I spent countless hours playing hockey into the darkness with my brothers, carrying our skates suspended by our hockey stick slung over a shoulder walking home with air as still as space, cold to the bone, dodging the steam of our breath, and feeling the crunch of the snow and ice beneath our feet. The memories are mostly sweet and and very innocent. Life has a way of pounding the innocence out, and when it’s gone, we can spend a lifetime trying to get it back. Oh well, I do go on, like the old fool I am. Perhaps I should stop right here.