Prompt Rides - 18. Random Memories

My name’s Ken. As I get closer to my fiftieth birthday, my memory has started to play tricks with me. Ask me what I had for lunch yesterday; go ahead ask. I won’t be able to answer you, I can’t recall. But sometimes, random memories of events long ago, are crystal clear in my mind.

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It, must have been 1970, I was twelve, my brother was nine, and we finally had pets. I’m not really clear on how it happened, how the two of them came to live with us, but my brother and I were ecstatic. They weren’t the puppies we’d been asking for, but at least they were fluffy, and we could chase them around the patio.

My mother had been raised with an unhealthy dread of dogs, and we’d never been allowed to have one. To be honest, she’d stupidly instilled some of her fear in us, and for a long time, we never felt the need to have one. Why is it parents so often regurgitate what they learned as children without question? Even back then though, the two of us were somewhat rebellious, influenced by our interactions with our friends, and their pooches, we overcame our reservations. We started to pester our parents, we wanted them to get us a pup.

We did have an aquarium, it had mollified us for a little while, but we soon tired of it. I mean, how exiting is it to watch a few goldfish swim back and forth in a twenty gallon glass box? The zebra fish were a bit more exciting, especially when one of them started growing a bulge. We expected to see babies, but didn’t know how to protect the eggs. Eventually we figured out what to do, and ended up with a bunch of little larvae. Ho hum…

I remember leaving the table, hungry, unable to eat the stew mother served for dinner. At first, I thought it was chicken. It tasted different, so I asked. There was no real answer, but somehow I figured it out. I couldn’t eat another bite. I realized then, my pet bunny hadn’t really run away.

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Three years later the family had moved to a new town and I was about to start tenth grade in a new school. All the new people around me were somewhat overwhelming. For the first time in my educational life, I was surrounded by blacks, Jews, Asians, girls―can you say culture shock? I’d spent the past few years at an all-boys, all-white, private school, run by an order of Catholic brothers. Each class year at the new place had more students that all twelve grades combined at the old one.

Classes ran from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon, there were split schedules because of the overcrowding. My second period was Algebra, and the teacher was a nice young woman, a recent graduate from one of the state’s universities. It was her first teaching job. By the end of the week I was thinking she should go back for a couple more years of education herself; I’d ended up explaining things to her a couple of times already.

My last period was Physical Education, the instructor also happened to be my guidance counselor, and the coach of the football team. I’d be walking home after that class, so I shove my jeans, my briefs and my shirt into my rucksack, before putting on a jockstrap, shorts, and a white t-shirt. Coach wanted us outside, on the field, ready to do a little running as soon as he came to join us.

It was a beautiful day, deep blue skies with a few wispy clouds, warm sunshine, and bright, green grass underfoot. But what was that strange smell, something new, something sweet, and spicy at the same time. I looked around, and on the edge of the field saw two big black guys sharing a cigarette. They noticed me looking, they both smiled, one of them held out the cigarette to me and asked if I smoked grass. Considering my background I was a bit intimidated, but after those two boys got me high, they ended up being my first two friends in the school.

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Another three years had gone by and I was in college. I was far from home, no longer a big man on campus. The high school class president was now just another freshman, nobody special. There were plenty of other class presidents, outstanding athletes and honor roll students. I was back at a private institution, run by a religious order, with mostly white kids again. Lots of old money and famous names around the halls: Fisher from Michigan, Cabot Lodge from Massachusetts, Reagan from California. One of the coolest guys in my dorm was named Terran; his dad was a famous science fiction author whose books I’d read, hence the name. Can you say culture shock all over again?

It was a rough winter, that year. More snow fell in January than in the entire previous winter. I’d brought my car to school after Christmas break; it ended up buried in the white fluffy stuff for a couple of weeks. The snow soon turned to ice, and wasn’t quite so fluffy for very long. I spent too much time sitting and eating, too fucking cold outside to do much. All the eating of good, ole, meal plan cafeteria food, chockfull of carbohydrates, brought me face to face with the freshman fifteen, twice over.

By the time my nineteenth birthday rolled around, spring had sprung, the snow had melted and tulips were in bloom all over campus. I was a fat pig by then. A buddy and I took our girlfriends out for the day, rented paddle boats, and bought a kite. I was embarrassed to wear shorts and a tank top in public, swore I’d get back in shape over the summer. Strict diet, lots of exercise, and thoughts of getting laid in the fall, did the trick.

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My grandmother, my mother’s mother, lived with us most of my childhood. I called her Yeya, when I first started to speak, the name stuck and my siblings followed suit. She was caring, funny and scared of her own shadow. Frogs petrified her, so my brothers and I would bring one home whenever we could, delighting in the resulting screams. She’d take her false teeth out, and make faces which had us laughing like little hyenas. Whenever there was a party, she’d be the first one shaking her butt to the beat of the music, outrageously flirting which whatever man she’d decided to drag out on the dance floor.

I moved out from my parents’ house, after I graduated from college. Grandma did the same a few years later. As her mind weakened, she spent time at an activity center for the elderly, then at daycare, in a facility for those with senility. Eventually, her Alzheimer’s disease made it difficult to care for her, she went to live in a nursing home. I went to see her once in a while, not often enough, I now realize. It was hard to see the woman with the saucy tongue, barely able to talk.

One day mom called, grandma was in the hospital. Could I spend a little time with her? Mom needed to take care of some things and didn’t want the old lady alone. I was happy to help, grabbed whatever book I was immersed in at the time and headed to the clinic. I planned on reading to the old lady, even if she couldn’t comprehend what I was saying, maybe the sound of my voice would be comforting.

I had no idea Yeya had stopped eating, or that mom had made a decision, she’d regret for the rest of her life. Most of us know it as "tube feeding." Doctors call it percutaneous endoscopic gastrostomy (PEG). It’s force feeding. It’s done without the patient’s consent, extends their life when they’re probably ready to die. I saw my grandmother again one more time. I couldn’t bring myself to visit afterwards. That wasn’t the lady who helped raise me in that bed. It was some sort of animal, curled up in a fetal position, with a tube keeping her alive. I knew I wasn’t strong enough to go back, so I wiped the tears, and said goodbye

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In the movie Forrest Gump, the lead character―played by Tom Hanks―uttered a phrase which became part of American culture―"Mama always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." Memories are just a mental rerun of life.