“Okay, Grandma.” Melodi, at almost five, has a better appreciation for nostalgia than her two and a half year old sister, Sierra.
So I scrabbled around and came upon the opening for The Lone Ranger. The one I chose (and there were several choices) was a little scratchy and not the sharpest picture in the world, but as it played a flood of memories assailed me and I choked up a little. I saw my little girl self sitting wide-eyed in rapt attention as Clayton Moore and his horse charged up the hill to The William Tell Overture. Then into that mist came other old shows, Rin Tin Tin, The Little Rascals, Superman and a few others. Here were icons of days gone by, my days, and my heart was touched with the poignancy of being able to show them to my angels. After we’d gone through a few I was surprised at what happened next. They asked to see the Lone Ranger opening again. I suppose it didn’t hurt that I was bouncing them along and yelling “Hi Ho Silver!” as it played. Having a crazy grandma helped put a little zip into a miserably hot day for them – I hope.
At the time I was enduring childhood it didn’t seem as though anything that happened to my ordinary self would be worthy of tears this many years later. But back then I had many, many thoughts and dreams of how life should or eventually could be and most of them have turned to ash. Yet, drifting back to that kid world is a comfort. I wonder why.
There’s a fairly recent commercial for an investment company, I think, where an older man goes back in time to advise his younger self. Man, wouldn’t that be cool! Perhaps from a distance we gain insight from imagining the words of wisdom we’d impart if we really could do that. It would be way more than, “It’s going to turn out okay.” Some of it would be cautionary, like, “Some day you’ll understand why Mom did that,” to sillier fare like, “Standing at the unlit back porch pounding on the door wearing an old hat and coat so you can scare the bejeepers out of your sister while she babysits will not be your finest hour.” It was danged funny, but not fine.
We all know about comfort food. Yum! Mac and cheese, homemade bread with real butter and jam, Spaghetti O’s. But the reason they comfort is because of the memory attached. Right? My mom was not the best cook in the world so my comfort food has always been of my own making. No, for me, comfort comes in other forms; one of them, to my surprise, is a guy in a mask on a horse named Silver, a boy who yells “Yo Rinny!” and the two little blondes on my lap wanting to know about them. I’ll take it.
How about you?