"I think there is a twinge of Nostalgia to be felt when places are visited even if they do not have a link to someone who has died. I have been contemplating if Nostalgia is a bitch. Maybe she’s not. Maybe she’s just doing her job, re-connecting us to places that meant something….or mean something. I think we’ll hang out some more. Can’t help but not."
Possibly my favorite quote. It comes from my cousin Laura, who spent this past summer on a "vision quest" of sorts, in memory of her late father. In a nutshell, she spent a month kayaking the Lake Erie Islands, revisiting places that she had visited with him. The intent of the trip was to basically to make peace, and find herself some closure.
I found myself wondering last night, "What happens if you can't do that?"
The Parma Theater was torn down yesterday. For anyone who might not know, it was an old, freestanding movie theater in an older part of Parma (which, for my out of state friends, is a suburb of Cleveland.) For as long as I can remember it ran second run movies. It wasn't really in my end of town and I'm not sure that I was ever there more than a half dozen times, even growing up with my movie-obsessed mother. However, my best friend's grandparents lived a few blocks over, and from the age of 14 on she lived even closer. On top of multiple trips with her mother and grandmother as a child she went almost every day during her teenage summers. It was a place that meant a lot to her, for family reasons, and possibly other reasons that I won't speculate about here. She's such a dear friend, and as Rob Thomas says in his song "Diamonds", if she feels bad then I do too. She'll never spend another summer afternoon there just to get away. She'll never get to take her daughter.
There are places about which I feel similar. Geauga Lake, for example. I went to that small (by comparison) amusement park multiple times during my childhood summers, along with trips to Sea World across the lake. With my grandparents, my parents, my sister, and the above mentioned cousin. When I was older I went with my friends. Granted I never gave much thought to it at the time, but it never crossed my mind that I would not be able to take my own children. I wasn't in the area when it closed and the memories of my last trip are not so great, but during the 5 years that my work commute took me past the sorry remains of that park my heart just ached. There's a hot debate right now over what to do with what's left of the property, but I honestly would be happy with anything as long as it meant I did not have to see it the way it is today. Much like the Parma Theater, I'll never spend another summer afternoon waiting in line for the Big Dipper or show my daughter my first roller coaster. (The Double Loop, if you care.)
Sometimes it's not just a place that's special, but the people that experience it with you. I posted to Facebook one morning that I had calmed a fussy child by singing the theme song to "The Beverly Hillbillies" and blamed sixth grade. I had a sixth grade teacher whose version of music class was teaching us theme songs from old TV shows and commercials. That Facebook post lead to about 50 comments from my classmates, sharing our memories of that class (seriously, how did he get away with some of that stuff?), the teacher, and other things we remembered from grade school. That might not seem like much, but when work is giving you anxiety attacks, your kids aren't cooperating, and your spouse is gone for the third night in a row, a day spent sharing memories on Facebook can be just what you need.
Sadly though, sometimes the people are gone too. I spent my summer weekends (and a lot of time in between) up at the lake. I have tons of great memories with my sister and cousins and aunt and uncle. But the last four or five summers are what I remember the most. I met a guy up there who was a couple years older than I was, but we became fast friends nonetheless. We'd hang out my the pool, he'd take me to the beach, we'd sit on my parents' boat after dark and drink beer. Sometimes he'd have other friends with him too, and it was really some of the most fun ever. Now to clarify, he was at Ohio State already by the time we became friends. I was 15. As a parent today I am not sure I'd be down with my 15 year old daughter hanging out with a college guy all summer, but my parents had no problem with it. And they had absolutely no reason to, because over all that time, he never once behaved even slightly inappropriately. (And no, he wasn't gay.)
There are certain things in life that you don't appreciate until you are older. And this guy was exactly that. You really don't appreciate a good guy until you get out there and see a lot of bad ones. It really wasn't until my late 20's, when I had had the misfortune of several affairs and relationships with some truly horrible people that I realized what gem my lake friend really was. Twenty one year old Kate had no idea that with men he was the exception, not the rule. (I'm not saying the only exception by any means, but an exception nonetheless.) I've never been able to tell him this, unfortunately. My parents sold the lake place in 1999, and I moved, and we lost touch. Despite modern technology, and social media, and google, I've not been able to track him down. (Add an overly common name to the mix and there is really no hope.) I'm not saying that I wish we had ridden off into the sunset. But I would love to be able to tell him what a great person he is, and that with what I know now it means a lot that he never tried to take advantage of the situation.
I've rambled on, and I'm not sure ultimately how to end this. Maybe it is that we should really take the time to appreciate what we have and the people in our lives. (Though we all know this.) Maybe it's that when life kicks you in the head and you're about to jump off a cliff we should take the time to remember, to share those memories, and that doing that will help move us back into a better place. Maybe it's that these connections to places and things are a part of what it's all about, what makes life worth living. Maybe a little bit of everything. Sometimes you just can't go back. But maybe sometimes the memories are enough.
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