Category Archives: Nostalgia

Nostalgia, Personal, Springdale

The Lights of Nostalgia

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The Lights Of Nostalgia 

I chose an odd place to walk this morning. What we called highway 68 until 1988, 38 years ago. Sunset Avenue and 412 replaced the antiquated designation because modernity requires that we erase. 

I parked at Denny’s. Years and years ago, it was the home of one of the biggest machine shops in the region. Before the interstate, when the fields and narrow roads defined everything. My family lived on 48th Street, in a small house and then a trailer, both owned by the family member who employed my dad. Across the street, a little house would become Shirley’s bar. The convention center now sits in a spot that holds a lot of locked memories for me. This was before the corridor of 48th Street was cut in half by the curve of the interstate. 

Almost 200 stitches in my head, nearly blinded by acid, a 70+ ft. tree that beckoned me to climb it, an almost forgotten tornado that pulled off the attachment to our trailer, and a lot of violence. But there was a lot of adventure, too. Springdale was an entirely different place then, trapped in amber and more isolated than people would believe.  

I walked the length of old 68 / 412 this morning, stumbling a couple of times because of the atrocious patchwork of sidewalks. Past countless buildings and places such as the Malco theater. My brother and my cousin Jimmy were there with me on the Christmas Eve it opened. It’s hard to believe that almost 50 years have passed. 

Even though there is a lot of city light now to blemish your view of the night sky, across the street from the All American steakhouse is still one of the best places to get a 360° view of the panoramic sky at night if you’re in Springdale. That spot sits in a bowl that almost no one notices is there. You almost have to be a walker to appreciate it. 

I knew walking that stretch would unlock a lot of memories for me this morning. Businesses like Applebee’s come and go, historical flickers of presence that can only be appreciated if you’ve been around long enough to understand that entropy reigns and laughs at the idea of permanence. 

I’ve walked so long that this sky is now transitioning into a luminous pink haze on the horizon.  Much in the same way that my unlocked nighttime memories are fading. 

The picture I took as I looked back toward the interstate would have been almost completely dark 50 years ago. For the briefest moment, I even remembered what the house looked like that once stood where the Phillips 66 station now stands.  It’s proof that our brains have entire vaults of images and information that for some reason have been tucked away. I would take both horror and delight in remembering a lot of mine. 

X

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Driving aimlessly back toward home, I stopped at one of the ponds that’s always beautiful early in the morning.

Biographical, Deanne, Eureka Springs, Nostalgia, Personal

The Day

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This picture was taken 29 years ago, 10,592 days. Almost half a life ago, a fulcrum that seems impossible at this point. It was supposed to happen on Halloween that year, but logistics conspired to make that difficult. 

Most of us like to imagine going back and being able to look forward, seeing the relentless incremental changes that we choose or are foisted on us. The acceleration of change that’s almost invisible while we’re experiecing it. Can you imagine reliving the moments as instantaneous bullets of laughter, agony, and experience? Most of us would choose it, even if it’s a roller coaster that leaves us lying on the pavement, asking ourselves why we got back on the ride, knowing how it would end. 

Every cell of our bodies has changed, but the memories remain – if we’re lucky. I took a moment to fling open the door early this morning, remembering, and then bolted it shut afterward. 

X

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Jimmy, Lemon Moment, Nostalgia, Personal, Springdale
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Springdale Nostalgia

I had massively ornate nightmarish dreams. As a courtesy, the universe didn’t let me remember them. Instead of fighting it, I got up and within a few minutes, I was at work. Running through my duties like a madman, on a whim, I decided to drive to downtown Springdale. Even though 3 a.m. had barely made its entrance, I walked down the middle of Emma, interrupted by only one car the entire length as I walked east.

I’m glad I did. The number of temperate and beautiful early summer mornings is flying by. The walk was nostalgic because I once knew every nook and cranny of this place, down to the routines of each business, and every place where the sidewalk grew treacherous. 

This place is stunning now! Maybe not to those who pass by when they are competing with others to traverse it. But in the dark? When the only sound are the insects inhabiting the green spaces interspersed along the street. Or when the owners of Buck’s Bar can be heard shouting as they playfully gather bags of clinking beer bottles, remnants of last night’s revelry. 

When I turned onto Holcomb Street and after making two wide loops and circuits of the area, a barrage of distant sirens wailed. A wall of delicious aroma assaulted me as the wind tunnelled along the old Leon’s hair building. I was surprised to see a new building next to the old church at the corner of Grove. It’s built to look old and it’s one of my favorite styles. The polychromatic BierGarten still shines. For those of you who still live around here, I’m sure it’s become a backdrop and perhaps even banal. I wonder how many current residents don’t realize that the Lisa Academy contains all the old ghosts and stories of the original First Baptist Church. Before they modernized the spillways and drainage, an adventurous kid could brave walking along the edge and under the streets. I was one of them. 

At exactly 3:57 a.m., the wind picked up as I doubled back on Meadow. The rustle of the large tree startled me as I looked up to see the American flag flapping hard. Its leaves are drying and in under a month, they will surrender to the ground. James + James is now a memory. Part of the building is now a nice modern pool lounge. Remember when we were young in this small town? A pool table meant you damn well better be on guard. It now guarantees a multitude of delicious beer I’m just about any modern drink you might want. As I took the picture, I laughed. I know exactly what my dad would say if he were standing next to me: “Bunch of ******s.” The sushi place by the square isn’t a place I normally would like. I’ve been there once and absolutely loved it.

I hadn’t seen the new jail since it’s completion. Even that has a severe case of overachievement. I would halfway expect to see modern art hanging in the bathrooms in that place. 

Because I’m so far out of the loop, I almost fell over when I saw that Shirley’s had relocated near the railroad depot. When Springdale was nothing, I lived across the street on 48th from the house that would become Shirley’s. When the interstate hadn’t gobbled up the dirt roads and pastures that defined the beginning of West Springdale. 

I’m having a severe case of nostalgia as I walk by these places. Superimposed on all of these is an emotional and visual silhouette of what once was. From the pizza place on the downtown corner, to the old theater where I saw Swamp Thing and could easily imagine that it was lurking in the old alleys of the old Springdale. Shout out to Adrienne Barbeau, by the way. I can’t think of her without thinking of my cousin Jimmy and how enamored he was of her. She rivaled even the original Farrah Fawcett poster he had in his room for decades.

Well done, Springdale.

Exercise, Fayetteville, Lemon Moment, Nostalgia, Personal

It’s Already Gone

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I was out too early, looking to see a few spectacular meteorites from the Perseid meteor shower that is peaking this week. I know a couple of amazing dark spots in the middle of all this urban sprawl. But for some reason my feet took me west until I finally reached Deane Street. The modern trail and street lights they’ve installed are gorgeous. The first stretch looks like an infinite straight strip. On the north side, there is still a huge field that stretches north, with a northern perimeter that has surprisingly few lights to interrupt it. Facing away from the beautiful street lights, it’s one of the best urban views of the northern sky that can be had. It was beautiful before they modernized Deane. It’s still beautiful now, albeit in a different way.

As I walked, I stopped for fifteen seconds every few minutes so that I could watch and scan the sky for meteors. The third time I did so, I saw something running along in the tall grass. It turned out to be a small fox. Further along, I realized it was interested in me. I took out my camera and stood still. That’s how I got this amazing photo that is everything except the fox.

Shortly thereafter, at about 2:45 a.m., the blare of distant police and fire sirens to the south caused unseen animals out in the expanse of the field to howl and yap. I stopped about 100 yards away from the modern veterinary lab on Deane, listening in appreciation. A couple of barn and equipment buildings silhouetted against the sky. And that’s when I got to see my first meteorite streaking like a casual hello. It was short-lived but brilliant. That’s about all you can ask for. A couple of miles of walking in the dark gifted me with the briefest of illuminations. 

As the economy sputters, and as I watch people seemingly dive into erroneous faith that encourages attitudes better left behind us, I stole that damn moment. Of course I would rather see a dozen meteorites. But it is the first bite of pizza that delights, or that split second when you lean in for the kiss you’ve waited for. Everything else is saturation and overindulgence.  

An hour later, I still couldn’t bring myself to turn around. So I looped and walked along the mega car stores and the perimeter of the interstate. Absent traffic, there were amazing views of the night sky.  Once you reach Chicory Place, you’ve encountered what I call Pocket Narnia. No street lights. No buildings. Animals and critters creeping without worry. It is a snippet of a perfect night view. The sound of insects holds its own against the background rumbling of the interstate that now seems to be five miles away.  I can’t imagine that this little piece of Narnia will survive much longer, much like the original Narnia at the end of Leverett. “Everything changes, but not all of it is progress.”

When I took a minute to kneel and chalk a message on the concrete near the desolate Sam’s club, whoever was driving by slowed to a crawl. I ignored them, But also wondered what they thought they were seeing as they watched me leave a message, One that was almost Ecclesiastical.

I was lucky today. Despite walking too many miles, my accidental route didn’t drag me linearly. Had it done so, I would have had to call a friendly Uber to get back home. It amuses me that when I’m out here and forget time, it feels as much like home as sitting in my office chair. 

I’m probably the only one I know who appreciates how beautiful Garland/112 is on these early summer mornings before the sun even considers gracing us. I walked right down the middle of this road that is still somehow two lanes. The dome of the sky enveloped me. The modern buildings the U of A intermittently installed become invisible. The view from there is largely the same as it was seventy years ago. 

As I came parallel to the Y-park, I turned and stopped to listen to the ocean of insects and to briefly remember a late night there forty years ago. My second meteorite of the night interrupted my reverie. If I didn’t know better, I might swear that the universe is trying to remind me that there are no moments unworthy of distraction.

X

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Biographical, Family, Lemon Moment, Music, Nostalgia, Personal

Nostalgia

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I love when forgotten memories get unlocked by music. Monday afternoon I was scrolling and Sammy Arriaga’s version of Freddy Fender’s “Before The Next Teardrop Falls” came on. 

I remembered a specific summer afternoon over the years. But for some reason, this time an enormous amount of details came back. It felt like a door had been unlocked and let me remember things that were locked away. It was July of 1990, back when I was as naive about so many things and an expert at things most people didn’t experience.

I hadn’t thought about that summer afternoon in years. Even though it was my first year at Cargill, I was trying to do something for Uncle Buck who had helped me yet again. Many people don’t know that it was because of him that I was able to do things that I otherwise might not have. Several times in junior high, he stepped in and helped me when my parents drank all their money away. I have to include Aunt Ardith in my thanks. 

I mowed Uncle Buck’s yard for him.  Because Aunt Ardith went to play bingo, Uncle Buck invited me to join him as he poured himself a “snortee.” Jimmy would have been at his job at Mary Maestri’s, working in the separate building on the large property at the corner of what is now highway 112 and 412. Like almost everything else, it’s an entirely different world out there now.

For once, I accepted a small glass of whiskey with two cubes of ice. Uncle Buck laughed like he did, pointing out that people who preferred to drink their whiskey straight were either sophisticated or about to start a fight. 

When I was younger, Uncle Buck tried to encourage me to learn to play bass guitar. He liked to tease me about being in band and choosing the French horn. But he was glad that I was into music.  Once I graduated, I turned down both a music scholarship and an offer to be in the United States Army Orchestra. Uncle Buck wasn’t someone who repeated himself often, but there were a few times he told me to find a way to get back into music. 

Uncle Buck got out one of his records. He chose Freddy Fender’s “Before The Next Teardrop Falls.” He showed me the album cover and laughed at Fender’s enormous head of hair. By that age, I had already adopted my short haircut. 

Probably because no one else was at the house, Uncle Buck told me to listen to the song with fresh ears. He said that it was one of the best examples of a perfect country song. Just a stripped down love song that wasn’t cluttered by technique. 

I don’t know what Uncle Buck was thinking about when the song played the first time. It’s strange to me to think that he was around 57 years old that afternoon, just a little younger than I am now. Whatever look he had on his face, it was 100% nostalgic.

When he played it the second time, he explained it to me as a musician. While I don’t remember specifically everything he said, he told me that it was the perfect tempo to sing or dance to. That it was standard time, mostly major chords, and that it was the perfect example of a verse-chorus song. Uncle Buck was impressed with the fact that Freddy Fender made a hit out of it both in country and pop. Uncle Buck was also impressed that the song included a steel guitar and an accordion. 

As the song played a second time, I almost fell out of my chair when Uncle Buck softly followed the lyrics as Freddy Fender switched to Spanish. Uncle Buck loved teasing me about speaking Spanish, but this time, after the song ended, I asked him about it. He told me that because he learned all music by ear, it was just a question of repetition. 

We listened to a couple of other songs before Uncle Buck put on Charlie Pride’s “Kiss An Angel Good Morning ” 

I don’t remember exactly how he put it, but he pointed out that it was almost perfect too, because it was the type of song bad singers could do reasonably well. 

I wish I could remember what song he played next. That part is lost to me. He got up to pour himself another drink. He stood in front of his well-equipped stereo system, thinking. As an electronics tech for Montgomery Ward, he had nice stereo equipment.  Whatever song it was, by the time it ended, he had downed his drink. 

If I had it to do all over again, I would find ways to sit with Uncle Buck and have him talk about music. When he was younger, he had the chance to play with some amazing musicians in Memphis. Even though he played in a couple of bands that did well, he chose a good job with benefits over the musician lifestyle when he moved to Springdale. Because I’m older now and can relate to the fact that he was about the age I am now, I understand the nostalgia he probably felt that afternoon. 

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Brinkley, Lemon Moment, Monroe County, Nostalgia, Personal

Nostalgic Dream

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Robert looked at William in consternation.

“The house you paid for and waited for is gone. You had it for a day. Why are you smiling?”

William laughed and looked at Robert.

“Are you kidding? I spent a day on the porch and went to sleep in a room exactly like the one I slept in when my Grandpa was alive.”

“You’re strange, ” Robert said. “But I understand.”

William flipped the retrieved nail in his fingers.

They stood in the carbon and ashes of what was the front porch. Even the creosote soaked railroad ties that served as steps were reduced to ashes. Behind them long strips of galvanized steel lay twisted and burned on the ground. Concrete pylons poked out from the burned remnants.

Both of them looked out across the cotton field and watched the dragonflies against the sunset.

“Sometimes a day is a lifetime,” William whispered into the baked air of the Delta.

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Family, Humor, Nostalgia, Personal

Pranks

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“Every book is a mystery novel if you tear out the last 15 pages before reading it.”

My dad loved doing this to people. Imagine reading 245 pages only to discover that the last chapter is gone. Mom wanted to murder him more than once. Uncle Buck laughed about it after the fact. Mr. Dunivan, dad’s boss and cousin by marriage? He was the perfect victim for Dad. I don’t remember all the details, but Dad put a dirty magazine right on the dashboard of Mr. Dunivan’s car more than once. Or on his office desk. Mr. Dunivan’s mom initially had a conniption fit about it, but after discovering that Dad pulled the prank, she laughed like she was dying. Due to that prank, I realized you could LEAVE any magazine or book you wanted in a doctor’s office, friend’s house, etc. This realization made for some inexpensive fun for me as I got older.

Years ago, I used to keep my mom supplied with books, music, and movies. Even though I did it by accident, the final few minutes of the film Seven were missing from the end of one of the VCR tapes I’d sent her. Initially, she was convinced I did it on purpose – and pissed. Given its “head in the box” gut-wrenching ending, it was quite the coincidence that Seven was the particular movie in question. I re-taped it and sent it to her. It was a joy to mess with her sometimes. Putting the craziest random movies on tapes, inserting a death metal song into a collection of class country songs, or adding screams at maximum volume when she least expected it.

When MP3s became popular, it was easier than ever to prank people with wild, unexpected audio files in the middle of their gifted CDs. One of my victims rolled into the Silver Dollar City parking lot, blaring one of my mix CDs. I had inserted the Cheech Marin dialogue from “From Dusk ’til Dawn.” (The one where he is selling something I can’t mention here.)

I sometimes reminisce about pranks that I witnessed. I hated so much about my Dad, but I loved the fact that he could audaciously pull off some of the most outrageous pranks, ones that you couldn’t be certain might result in a heart attack, mandatory anger management enrollment, or (hopefully) small explosions.

One way I know I’m not my usual self is that I lose interest in spontaneous shenanigans. It’s a tell-tale sign for me.

The prank is on us, though.

You got up this morning, assuming you’d pass through the day to its completion.

To know the ending of these cold hours in front of us.

It’s not true, though.

Some of us have our final pages ripped out. We just don’t know it yet.

Love, X
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PS The picture is one of my parents after they remarried. Dad died nine months after they remarried. Shockingly, Mom was not the cause of his demise.
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Nostalgia, Personal

Purple Rain Memory

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I do not think a long-lost memory would have returned to me today had I not been showering in the dark. Alexa played the the song I almost always listen to – “Tiny Dancer,” and then went to the next song: “Purple Rain.” 

For those of you who don’t know that there is a term for repetitive sensory input, it’s called stimming. One of the odd consequences of receiving the same sensory information repetitively is that sometimes the act of repetition results in an almost blank state of mind. It can work like meditation or cognitive distraction, much like the tendency toward having shower thoughts.

People sometimes ask me why I shower in the dark. At times, it amplifies the disconnect that brings disassociated shower thoughts. 

As the song played, I felt like a light flashed in my head. The long lost memory came to me. My brain traveled 39 years into the past. At first, all I could recall is that a high school band friend had dragged me somewhere to watch “Purple Rain” the movie at someone’s house. I couldn’t remember which bandmate it was. He knew my circumstances and that I did not get out much. It seems like I can remember the names of four or five people who also watched the movie. For some odd reason, Winfield Watson is the most vivid name and face among those who were there. 

I hadn’t thought of that movie night in years. Had someone asked me about it, I’m convinced I would have told them they were mistaken. 

The moment in the shower left me feeling like I was on the verge of a flood of newly-accessed memories. It took me a long time to realize how many gaps I had in my childhood memories. I understand why that it’s the case. Having this one took me by surprise and it lingers. 

X

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New Word, Nostalgia, Personal

Cold Wisdom

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Since I went to sleep too early last night, I was up at 12:30. I took advantage to attempt to see the less spectacular Ursid meteor shower. The vantage point in the open parking lot about a half a mile away had too much radiant light interfering. It confuses me when I’m up at that hour because the bars and strip joints still thrive with people making dubious choices. 

But back at the apartment, I used my Star Walk app to orient myself facing Ursa Minor. Normal people refer to it as the Little Dipper. Our current North Star, Polaris, is the end of the handle of the dipper. It could not have been more ideal due to the towering pine trees behind my apartment blocking the moonlight – and most of the city’s lights. The Ursid meteors are more sporadic. I always find myself half frozen with a crick in my neck from soft-focusing my eyes toward the sky. 

Flight Delta DAL 2036 flying from Salt Lake to Fort Lauderdale flew over at 38,000 ft. It was pretty dazzling. 🙂 

I accidentally learn something each time I take the time or make the time to watch the sky. It’s rare for me to watch the stars and not think of my grandpa pointing toward the constellations. He wasn’t well educated. But like most people of his generation, knowing things like that was second nature. Before good maps, GPS, and all the things we take for granted. I wonder what he would think or say if he were standing next to me at 2:00 a.m. in the morning, watching me hold one of the most advanced communication and information devices ever created. 

The irony of me using such a device to watch and learn about remnants of our universe that are 4.5 billion years old isn’t lost on me. 

One thing I do know. Grandpa would have laughed if I told him I was cold and it was about damn time for another cup of coffee. I got my jadeite green coffee cup off the shelf when I went inside. As I drank from it, I thought about the fifty years I’d enjoyed between now and the first time I learned the name of a constellation. 

“Age does not bring wisdom. It brings experience that teaches you that everything passes whether you do anything about it or not.”

X

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Death, Family, Nostalgia, Personal, Relationships

Which?

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The pendulum swings. 

And the prism dances from light to dark. 

Often, I’m not quite sure which cycle has overtaken me. 

Blessings are disguised as curse just as often as gifts or acquisition result in loss of time and energy.

Things visit us. Memories of people linger as long as we’re here to remember. 

Is it melancholy or recognition? 

Love, X

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