Remember

September 10, 2018

Greetings from the best of my memory,

The sun would arrive at the prairie like it owned it.  The land was flat, few hills and fewer trees, and when morning came there was not much to disguise it.  When the weather changed in South Dakota you could see it coming for hours.  I had watched a storm come across the same stretch of world.  Purple black clouds writhing over the sage and dirt, spearing the parched land with jagged white lace.

This morning was like most others.  I was up before anyone.  I switched on the barrel sized coffee maker in the kitchen of the bunkhouse and leaned against the counter until there was something for me to drain into my cup.

It was cool outside.  I had pulled on jeans and my jacket and still felt the air pull at the damp places on my skin, where only minutes ago I was pressed into my sleeping bag.  There was nowhere to sit, really, so I crouched on my heels and blew over the edge of the plastic cup and sipped the coffee.  I waited for the sun.

I want to pause here and answer a question.  A few weeks ago, a friend of mine who read something I wrote, asked me how I remember things that I share.  To answer truthfully I have to shine a light the deceit we all share.

A lot what I write, and what you read here, is inspired from moments in my life that I think someone might find interesting.  Once in a while I set these memories out because I learned from them, or I was changed by the experience and I want to share it. 

But I know that memory is a slippery thing.  I’m lucky that on many of my adventures I kept a journal, which has managed my imagination a little.  And this place each Monday where I share with you has become a record of sorts.  Just this morning I looked back seventeen years and saw what I put down, and it gave me back this memory.

There was a tent where there hadn’t been one the morning before.  A man was crawling out of it, as gracefully as one can when one has been sleeping on the ground.  He sat on the hardpacked dirt and pulled on his shoes, then stood to walk over to me. 

He was older than me by enough years that it was obvious.  There was grey in his beard, and in his hair, which was mostly covered in a baseball cap.  We said ‘morning’ to each other in quiet voices, aware that people were sleeping.  He slipped inside and came out with a cup of his own and we stood in the yard and got to know each other.

When the sun was up and warming things I said I was off to run.  The man gave me a strange look, which I took for the same bewilderment I have seen many times, including there on the Pine Ridge Reservation.  But the look was less disbelief and more delight.  He said: “Well, I’d like to go with you, if you don’t mind”

From what I have read, and from my experience, the most vivid memories are tied to some strong emotion.  These milestone moments are usually what stay with me the clearest, and usually what I care about enough to put into words. 

On that morning and the next, the two of us ran the bare roads that split the rough country just outside Pine Ridge.  There is nowhere better to get to know someone than an easy run on an empty road.  Soon I knew he was a substance abuse counselor, a reformed drinker himself.  I learned a bit about his family, including his second wife who was probably still waking up in the tent we left behind.   After a while, hard to say how many miles, I shared a story from another time I crossed the Pine Ridge when I was just a week short of my 18^th birthday.

That story, twenty-six years old when I told it then, is as clear to me as this moment.  I stood with my two traveling companions on the edge of the reservation and argued over whether to ride where we might be in danger, or to go around and find another way west. 

This morning I feel like I have skipped a stone over the surface of the last forty-plus years, plinking a morning run with a new friend, and hopping back another couple of decades to the story I told him.  Memories of remembering memories.

In truth some memories come to me in quiet moments and demand to be remembered.  Once in a while I’ll be running and they rush in to occupy the empty space.   Ah, then the next step is where the risk is.  To trust they are true, to accept them as they come?  And then when the edges are dream fuzzy, how to make them clear enough to share if we choose to?

Memories are like leftovers from a meal you really enjoyed.  You may want to heat them up a bit, and add a little seasoning, to bring them back to life from their Tupperware limbo.  You might add something from other meals you’ve had lying around.  And even leftovers are improved with good presentation. 

I know that memory is a slippery thing.  I won’t pretend that I don’t shore up what I recall with what I think I recall.  As a writer I cannot resist adding color to the faded parts, and from time to time, perhaps arc the truth to suit the symmetry of what I am saying.  I don’t think I do it to intentionally mislead anyone, including me. 

I remember he was a kind, patient man, who spoke carefully.  When he told me his story I learned from it, and was challenged by his resilience, his ability to begin again.  In spite of all his hardships, he seemed content.  He worked quietly, diligently with us as we built bunk beds for the children around Pine Ridge.  I remember when he packed up his tent to leave I was sorry. 

   

What color was the cup?  What was his name?  What kind of car did they drive?  I don’t know.  Ask me what my social security number is and I’ll give you the same answer.  Sorry, try again later.

We all have this mist over our memory, shaded by time and other experiences that mingle with what we think we remember.  Hopefully, it bonds us as humans, gives us patience and empathy with other story tellers.   One thing you should know as you read this each week; you can trust me, I will tell you the truth, but it will be my truth. 

Hope this finds you with total recall,

David

Copyright © 2018 David Smith