Backward Glance
January 1998
During those busy, busy days
near the end of December, I promised I would not spend the waning
hours of the old year making resolutions to change old habits
or initiate new ones. Either I followed through and made changes
in past years or I didn't. I'm not about to now.
I
resolved instead to like myself just the way I am. I further promised
not to make predictions, trying to guess the way things will turn
out. "Que sera, sera, whatever will be, will be, the future's
not ours to see," sing it, Doris!
And,
yet, as the magical moment arrived, I was totally caught up --
not in resolutions, not in predictions, but in reflections. I
went zooming back to the four or five years following World War
II, to what was probably one of the kinder, gentler times George
Bush talks about.
None
of the events in between now and then caught my interest. I was
catapulted there ... New York in the late 40's, and no wonder.
It was all I could think of this week after a letter arrived Christmas
Eve. I would answer it tonight, I decided. What better way to
end the old year and begin the new than to write to an old friend
and talk about old times.
He
was more than a friend, he was my first sweetheart, and by surprise
we saw each other at a funeral in April. It had been 45 years
and we greeted each other with joy and animation -- probably quite
unsuitable for the room -- not able to conceal our delight in
having matured exactly as we would have hoped, each in long-standing,
happy marriages -- his to the little girl who worshipped him when
she was eight and we were 15. Everything about that chance encounter
was rejuvenating, and in the letter he said he wanted to write
because I had been an important part of his life. He enclosed
a snapshot enlarged by his son showing us smiling into the camera
on Easter Sunday, 1951.
We
looked brand new and sparkling -- he in gray double-breasted and
I in heels, hosiery, hat and gloves -- and still in our teens!
The idea of not conforming to fashion dictates was still a dozen
years away.
He
is right. We were an important part of each other's lives during
those long and longing teens. What is a turbulent time for so
many was wonderful for us; we breezed through our young years
caring and being cared for, confident and having healthy self-esteem
because we had each other.
We
are who we are now because of who we were then. We saw that in
April; he wrote as a dear friend, remembering this, remembering
that, and I want to respond in the same way. Yet, in remembering
the times and the world around us then, I'm also learning where
the expression, "What's new?" and the answer, "nothing much,"
originates.
Looking
back from a time in which we talk of the Millennium, this short
period was filled with little that was new. I'm not going to tweak
my memory with reference books and websites to recall what was
not actively integrated into our lives. I can say this: if Abraham
Lincoln stood on my corner and said, "The world will little note
nor long remember, " he would have been right.
Historians
later awakened me to the wonder of Truman and his accomplishments
during his years in office; then, however, our news of the day
-- day after day -- was on the President's piano playing, his
morning constitutionals with walking stick in hand and felt homburg
pulled down squarely on his brow. Passersby cheered "Give 'em
hell, Harry," and he did give hell to the columnist who dared
criticize his daughter Margaret's singing. And I recall some shoot-'em-up
incident aimed at Truman while he lived at Blair House, but it
was not an earth-shattering event.
In
fact, nobody paid attention.
And,
yes, the United Nations was formed during those years. That event
meant our combination ice and roller rink was closed to give them
a meeting place in what had been first the New York City Building
at the 1939 World's Fair, later a neighborhood skating rink. Until
the permanent United Nations Building was erected and placed firmly
into the Manhattan skyline, the delegates met in the cold, square,
flag-bedecked structure within walking distance to our homes.
Not noteworthy to most, I realize, but most didn't have to stop
skating so the world could commune.
This
is not a slide show I'm viewing in my mind, it's film on a long,
long reel and nothing is happening that is new. It was a period
of getting back what was lost to the war.
There
is no name to define this period. We have names for others: the
Roaring Twenties, then sobering up time with the stock market
crash. Then the Depression -- a really sobering time -- and then
the war that got us out of the Depression and then ... skip to
the fifties.
Well,
my high school days, those wonderful, coming-of-age days we all
remember, were 1946-1950, years merely footnoted as post-war.
Except for the return of Joe DiMaggio and the hail-the-conquering-hero
return of Ted Williams, nothing much is headlined as having happened.
All
effort was expended coming back from, before moving on to. Those
in service were coming back and housing was being built for them
to come back to; rubber for tires, steel for cars, as well as
an overflowing of gasoline to keep them running were returning
from the front lines, too. Nothing new, just back to business
as usual. Nylon for hosiery, leather for shoes, not new things,
just newly available.
It
was new to see high school freshmen with 5:00 shadows as guys
took advantage of the G.I. Bill and started preparing for college.
The fashion revolution of 1947 called the New Look, with skirts
flaring around our ankles, was more because of fabric's availability
than Dior's genius in design.
I'm
thinking. I'm really pondering. And, the only truly new and inventive
thing I recall coming along in those four years was the ballpoint
pen. "It writes under water." That line was good for a laugh --
and we did. As I said earlier, it was a kinder and gentler time.
For
all its lack of the new and the inventive, the period marks a
most memorable moment for me ... (sigh) ... I fell in love. Even
more remarkable (pitter patter), he loved me back.
In
any era first love sets that time apart. You reflect and as you
remember, you see all events of the day diffused through the sparkle
in your eyes. Oh yes, I remember.
An
interesting element in looking back is that the past is always
there -- it's not going anywhere. I can scan it and settle in
for a memory here and there. I can skip the troublesome parts
or wallow in them; I can highlight the triumphs or downplay them.
They're my memories, I can do what I want with them.
Perhaps
with hindsight, memories are filled with invention, or shaded
with illusion. Perhaps not. At any rate, it all looks good from
here. If I want to know what really happened in the world around
me, well, I can look it up.
But
for me, and for now, I'll remember being 15, loving and being
loved for who I was, long before I became who I am. How lovely
to have the memories and now, because we met again, not have to
wonder how our stories will end. We'll tell each other: "Dear,
friend ..."
His
family and mine are on the right track -- just getting off at
different stations.
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