It is 3:00 am and the moonlit prairie outside the cabin window supplies the quiet solitude that is required for my contemplation. Most of my thoughts that become writings occur when my daytime procrastination eases into compelling concerns about the past or the future. Most of the past is a jumble of warm memories punctuated by occasional regrets; wasn’t that pleasant intertwined with why did I say or do that and why can’t I re-live the good and re-do the painful? And most of my forecast of the future is paved with unrealistic hopes and dread I will repeat missteps in spite of learned lessons I should be able to apply to similar new experiences. My circadian rhythm probably developed much as my correct recollections of my past are intertwined with those my memory provides to enhance the good and assuage the regrets. I suppose, Gentle Reader, you also are in a similar constant struggle with what you have lived and what you hope or fear may follow. With me, what I am aware of when awake and alert versus what occasionally forces its way into my psyche I ascribe to sleep habits developed by the yin and yang of my life and those who have affected it, either directly or through culture. My family has provided the greatest influence upon my memories and the manner in which I dread or hope about the future.
My father was the 20th of 21 children. He was born in Indian Territory in 1905 in what became the state of Oklahoma in 1907. Some of his earliest memories were formed when he was 9 years old and he had to quit school because his father, a Baptist minister, was killed in a church camp meeting accident. My mother’s earliest memory was riding from her birthplace in Kansas to her new home in Oklahoma in a covered wagon; she was 3. Her father moved the family because he found a job in a cement making plant. The dust from that plant contributed to his death from lung cancer. My father and mother met because my father had moved from his home to work in the same plant. Dad died from lung cancer also. Both Grandfather and Dad were strong supporters of unions.
My first job was at age 10 in Mrs. Juby’s restaurant. My brother Philip, age 11, and I worked in the kitchen washing pots and pans and peeling potatoes. When I refused to include the rotten parts in with the rest of the mashed potatoes, Mrs. Juby complained to my parents who had Phil and me change to mowing lawns at $5.00 per.
In our home my sister and my two brothers and I did our school work on a shared card table in the living room. To get the use of the table I had to do my studies late at night. I expect this was the true beginning of when my mind required late night solitude to function. My memories of my home life are all good. If I minded sharing our one card table and our one bathtub, I do not have any complaints now and do not recall my parents or siblings complaining either. Actually, we all seem to have enjoyed our shared lives quite a lot. I often wish I could revisit those good times.
When I got married and we had a son I think back to living in a 10-foot by 48-foot house trailer on the Indiana University college campus with its one Formica table my wife and I shared as a desk. My fondest memories are marveling at our son’s young body growing so fast and later trying to comprehend how that child I so much enjoyed having under our care somehow became an Airborne Army Ranger who saw combat in two wars while we spent every day fearing a knock on the door from two uniformed messengers; fortunately, they never came and he did return. Now his son is an Army Airborne Ranger and we still worry.
Well, Gentle Reader, it is now 5:30 am and maybe I can put down my pen and give you and myself some relief. All-in-all it has been and still is gratifying to engage my nocturnal musings as I work around my diurnal obligations. I hope your memories are full and good and your regrets “too few to mention”. So, for now, I will enjoy my first cup of coffee and build a fire in the fireplace as Peg busies around in the burgeoning sunrise. We spend a great deal of our lives together, but find she prefers to do her work when I am unengaged and vice versa except for those best of times when our biorhythms are attuned, about four hours each of night and day.
So, for now, I wish you a conjoined “good night and good day”.
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