The morning was clear, crisp, and white. Unusual for rain sodden Oregon in January. It was too cold to actually snow; rather, a fine, almost invisible, mist of ice particles drifted like fog. The ground was getting whiter, a blinding glare that seemed to absorb sound.

A cold white silence.

Age adds layers of experience. This white morning is a day in 1956 when the wind piled the snow against the side of the house to the roof. My sister and I climbed it and rode our saucers from a hidden peak to the ground. It’s the day my little sister’s first ride down a hill behind the school ended abruptly at a buried pile of bricks that split her head open. It’s all the times the street one block over was closed off and dozens of us spent the day speeding down 3 full blocks before the long, slippery trek back to the top. It’s the icy hill just after I got my license when my brakes didn’t grab, and I slid fully sideways through a very busy intersection. It’s the hike to the mountain on a day so cold I stood too close our campfire, unaware that my rubber boots had melted and caught on fire. The day the university closed, and I had to drag Lydia out of the library for a snowball fight. The 6 O’clock phone call that we had a “snow day” and my seventh graders were free for a day. It’s all there in the first sharp glare of sun off snow, the first crisp, nearly painful breath of winter morning opens the door to all of it. A symphony in a simple tune.

Age builds layers of emotion and meaning on our experiences. Ultimately a familiar melody hearkens up the events associated with it in one way or another. A memory becomes a volume of chapters from the past jumbled together. The rattle of rain against the window becomes a key to past memories, some only now remembered.

As I get older, the memory door opens more often, and I pause. I get the “standin’ and starings” briefly and ramble through layers of memory.  It’s what us old guys do. Why we’re so slow. The present always includes the past in a rich, complicated symphony of experience. It must be observed.

Blessings.

The Road