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Musings of a Matriarch: Pleasant or not, every day’s a memory

Sharon Kennedy

Without realizing it, every day we create a new memory. It’s usually nothing spectacular like winning the lottery or buying a fancy sports car, but nevertheless, it’s a memory. Sometimes it’s as simple as meeting a neighbor on the road and exchanging smiles or waving at a stranger as he drives by. It might be the sound of a chickadee greeting a new day or the hoot of an owl as he bids good evening to the moon.

Memories are everywhere. They’re in the people we touch, the clothes we wear, the food we cook, the books we read. They’re in the laughter as well as the tears of the folks we love. Something as noisy as the whirl of a chainsaw or as quiet as a piece of old binder twine wrapped around a nail can jog memories of a person long gone. Worn plaid shirts, tattered baseball caps, work boots with laces tied together, and old barn jackets have the power to bring tears to our eyes as we remember the people who wore them.

Some folks are more tender-hearted than others and I guess that’s a good thing. I suppose there’s a Ying and Yang to everything. Otherwise, we’d all be laughing or crying at the same time and wouldn’t that be a merry mess? Tears come easily to my eyes. Like some of you, compassion is as much a part of me as my right arm.

During the summer, I rode my bicycle early in the morning when the shadows were long and the dew was still on the grass. As I traveled down the sideroad, I often heard the bray of Otto Bacon’s donkeys or the whinny of Leon Derusha’s horses. My bike has only one speed so I coasted down one hill and up the other as far as possible then I got off and walked my bike the rest of the way. Sometimes turkeys sauntered from the woods and passed in front of me or a chipmunk scurried across the road.

If I was too tired to pedal my usual 10 miles, I turned onto a dead-end road and rode until it ran out. I enjoyed the solitude of the morning stillness broken only by the call of birds or the quiver of leaves as a breeze wove through the trees. Although that spot was a lonely one, it was alive with the sights and sounds of nature.

Even if you live a quiet life and travel no farther than the nearest grocery store, you’re creating memories. You may not realize it until you’re settled in bed for the night and reflect upon your day. Then you’ll recall whatever made the day special. You’ll fall asleep with a smile or a tear.

Last night I fell asleep thinking about Dad’s barn boots. I was puttering in the wellhouse during the day and noticed his old boots where he left them 33 years ago.

They weren’t much to look at but they served the purpose when he did his chores. The cows didn’t know the boots were patched in a dozen places. They only knew the tender touch of Dad’s hands as he unchained each cow after milking and put her out to pasture.

Next to his boots was a new patch kit. As I opened the little tube of rubber cement, the smell immediately brought back images of Dad putting red patches over the holes in his boots. There’s a memory in every nook and cranny around this place. Sometimes I think the very air I breathe is filled with the ectoplasm of those gone before me. Dad passed away in 1983 and some things in the garage and wellhouse are exactly as he left them.

That’s the way it is when one generation takes over from the other. Items no longer needed remain undisturbed, but only if the new caretaker honors and cherishes the past. Often the land is divided and sold when parents are gone and children are scattered to the four winds. Few work the land anymore. There’s no profit in it and it’s hard work. Dad’s pastures are no longer fields. They’ve become forests.

When I rest my eyes from this computer screen, I often slip a CD in the Bose and take to my leather chair. As I look around the room at pictures of loved ones silent behind glass frames, I think about the future. I wonder if my daughter will feel the pull of the land as I do. I wonder if it will call her home if only for a little while.

My blue rubber boots will have no memories for her as Dad’s do for me. I bought them when she lived in Ann Arbor. She never saw me wear them when I did outside chores. She won’t know I slipped into them when it rained and I checked the mail or that last winter it was mild enough to put them on when I snowshoed. My boots will just be another pair of used footwear to throw out or take to the Goodwill.

And that’s what I mean about every day being a memory. Whether it’s looking back at the past and recalling loved ones or looking to the future and hoping for the best, there’s a memory in everything we do. I hope the memories you share around your Thanksgiving table this year are happy ones.

Editor’s note: Sharon M. Kennedy of Brimley is a humorist who infuses her musings with a hardy dose of matriarchal common sense. She writes about everyday experiences most of us have encountered at one time or another on our journey through life. Her articles are a combination of present day observations and nostalgic glances of the past. She can be reached via email at sharonkennedy1947@gmail.com. In addition, Sharon has compiled a collection of stories from her various newspaper columns. The title of her book is “Life in a Tin Can.” Copies are available from Snowbound Books on North Third Street in Marquette.

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