It's
Thanksgiving weekend. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday; I have
developed some pleasant rituals for myself and enjoy cooking a big,
delicious meal for my family. This autumn, I have been thinking about
Everyman (the play they make
all the English majors read during the first semester survey of
British lit) and, one thing leading to another, my Thanksgiving
ruminations focused on memory.
(So
far this isn't about woodworking. I know. Please bear with me.)
How
did Everyman lead me
to think about memory? The play teaches an important lesson that I
wasn't ready to receive as a 21-year-old: everything we have will be
stripped away eventually. Money, friends, family, health - - Everyman
relies on each to pull him through his existential crisis, and none
of them do the trick. (If you've read the play recently, you probably
realize I haven't read the play in a long, long time. This digression
is all about my memory of my reaction when I read it 26 years ago in
Craig Kallendorf's class.) In the 1980's, in the United States, the
average 21-year-old white male was still in a phase of life that
involved far more gain than loss: I was still gaining new experience,
knowledge, and skills so that I could “begin” my career. Being
told by a medieval morality play that everything I was working
towards would be taken away from me was not a welcome message at all!
My strong denial stuck with me, for some reason, and I found that as
I lived my way through my twenties and thirties and forties, I
gradually came to understand and accept the wisdom of Everyman.
Seeing the slow physical deterioration and death of loved ones;
gaining and losing some truly wonderful friends through career moves
and misunderstandings and missed connections; witnessing unexpected
losses of life and property among my peers; getting and losing jobs
and houses and money as time and chance happened to them all: these
taught me that yes, Everyman
was right. It's all temporary.
(Still
no woodworking! But just another paragraph or two, I promise.)
Memory
is something I treasure, now that I have lost some people and places
I love. As I cooked Thanksgiving dinner, I thought of all the people
I've shared Thanksgiving dinners with. Many of them are no longer in
my life. Time and chance does that. As long as I have memories,
though . . . but guess what? Memory can be stripped away too.
Alzheimer's is in my family, so there's a chance I'll lose my
cherished memories. And even if I don't, remember Roy Batty's dying
monologue in Blade Runner?
“All those moments will be lost in time . . .” So this
Thanksgiving, I am thankful for memory.
However, loss of memory has at least two sides. Early this
month I was in Wisconsin, in the patch of woods I own. I knew that I had carefully stacked and covered some walnut
boards there, about 15 years ago when I still lived in Iowa and had
just bought the place in Wisconsin. A friend in Iowa gave me a
small walnut log, which I split into quarters and then cut into
quartersawn boards on a bandsaw. Every once in a while through the
years, I have passed the covered stack in the woods and thought to
myself I ought to bring the lumber home and use it. This fall I took
action. And what a treat! The stack was in very good shape. I had
covered it with pieces of steel roofing to shed water, and I think
the fact that the cover overlapped the pile by quite a bit was what
saved it.
The
wood in the stack was all in good shape! Let's hear it for well-made
piles!
And
then I found the gift that I had given myself: inside the pile, a
couple of pieces of crabapple.
They aren't big, they aren't the best
quality, but I had assumed that all the crabapple I bandsawed back in
Iowa had been lost or burned. Apple is one of my very favorite woods. Hard, heavy, fine-grained, and with a glorious color that just keeps on improving with age, like cherry's older, more sophisticated sister. Finding these pieces of wood,
probably only big enough to make a couple of tool handles or drawer
pulls, was like a small gift I had given myself thanks to
forgetfulness. This Thanksgiving, I'm thankful for forgetfulness.
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