Memory, hold the door - maybe
Here in South Carolina, our State Bar issues a regular call for a ‘Memory Hold The Door’ moment. I have been licensed here in the Palmetto State for thirty-five years but as to this particular pitch, I have never paid much attention to it as it is, as best I can tell, a solicitation to fund portraits of varying quality of Judges who are retired, stepping down, dead or dying. There are lots of these adorning the otherwise dull as dirt walls of the Charleston County Courthouse.
They are of 'varying quality’ to be sure. And sometimes, I just have to laugh quietly to myself as a few of these portraits simply call to mind moments when the old jurist had no idea what the correct law was, ignored my chapter and verse recitation of the correct law and thus, mightily screwed me and my client royally while all I could do was grit my teeth and smile in the fashion of, Please Sir May I Have Another...
As I am herein going to write now about ‘memory’, the ‘hold the door’ phrase popped into my head and I finally, after three and half decades of practicing law in these parts, decided I would track its genesis down. My presumption was that it originated in the classical, ancient garden of the English Common Law (and maybe it did…) but what jumped out over and over again was enough for me within the context of my today’s writing and I report thusly:
"Memory Hold-The-Door (Hmmmm…why all the hyphens…?) is a 1940 autobiographical memoir by the Scottish writer John Buchan…In a preface to the book Buchan disclaims the description of autobiography, preferring to call his work “a journal of certain experiences, not written in the experiencing moment, but rebuilt out of memory.” Interesting.
I recall the moment vividly. It was raucous, expansive fun. Years ago, six of us wanted to go down to Clemson to see our Tar Heels take on the Tigers. Imbued with the heady foolishness and wastefulness of youth, we chartered a private plane and with a serious nod to the exigencies of both luxury and safety, got our long-time friend and driver to take us to and from Smith Reynolds Airport in Winston-Salem and also convinced him to come along for the ride and game. How we had plenty of tickets I do not recall but we did and he, damn fine man that he was, signed on to babysit his kindergarten of the sophomoric. Our bemused pilot came along too.
Yes, more than a little alcohol fueled the festivities from start to finish but the memory is clear. It was the equivalent of herding cats. Thank God for our Grownups!
We flew into the Clemson landing strip-that’s it-one asphalt runway with a blockhouse radio shack and a wind sock (orange and white of course) with two flag men (with enormous orange and white flags of course) directing traffic.
We stuffed mini and other sized bottles of hooch into our pockets and jackets and piled into one of the many rotating shuttles. It was a chilly, beautiful late afternoon game with dusk coming on, the sky full of fading blue into purple and gold. Tiger Stadium was aglow in the close distance.
We had great seats, high in the end zone beneath a huge, blinking scoreboard. It was a roaring full house and the teams were evenly matched and played to knock the ever-living hell out of each other. It was a brutal, slobber-knocking, titanic fight and more. It was thrilling.
At half time, we needed to refresh and relax for twenty minutes until the gridiron gladiators resumed their combat. A few went and got cups of mixers and ice from the concession stands and we poured another. In those days, stadium security all over the country never bothered with game drinking unless fisticuffs broke out. We were not of that ilk. This was a game that commanded attention and respect and pure enjoyment. The sides respected each other and were proud to be a part of it.
I was sitting with my brother and my cousin. We were just taking it all in when my brother abruptly stood up, peered down at the near end zone and said, “I’ll be right back.”
Down the steps he went to the low chain link fence that guarded the field. My cousin and I looked at each other in curiosity.
Then we realized that the subject of my brother’s interest was a girl he had been seeing, off and on, who was in the company of a short, well-dressed, bespoked sort of fellow. They were strolling back and forth in the end zone, almost parading.
The crowd noise was still substantial. So, we could not hear as my brother vigorously motioned for the fellow to go ‘somewhere else’ and then he and the girl spoke animatedly, with finger pointing and arms waving about. It appeared to be a heated exchange. Then my brother stomped back up the steps and the girl went off with the fellow who had been assigned to the sidelines. My brother sat down, said nothing. My cousin looked at him for a moment and then issued a one word, “Well…?”
My brother pulled bottle of vodka out from under our bleacher seats and pulled three bubbles out of it, inhaled deeply and looked at us and said, “Well boys, it’s like this. We’re getting married.”
And the game resumed, Clemson won a close, hard fought one and we flew home. The two did indeed get married. This was at least forty-plus years ago. And they are married unto this day.
The other afternoon, it was Monday, March 15th, I was reading the New York Times and there was the obituary of the fantastic middleweight boxer Marvelous Marvin Hagler. He was truly a great one. After reading it and calling forth all sorts of memories of his titanic bouts with Thomas ‘Hit Man’ Hearns and Sugar Ray Leonard, I started to turn the page when an obituary below the fold caught my eye.
It was the death notice, accompanied by a photograph, of the guy my brother dismissed at Clemson so long ago when he and his soon-to-be wife agreed upon their fates.
I recalled the guy was from serious money and he surely was. I had not thought about him for years. I could see him, see them so clearly. It was back in time and yet, it was vivid and clear and right there.
I took a picture of the photo and obit and texted it to me brother with a, “Remember Him?”
His reply. “Yeah, So what?”
“Wasn’t he the guy at the Clemson game who you told to hit the road while you all decided to get married?”
“Hell No, I knew the guy but the last place he be caught dead at would be at a Clemson football game. Nope, not that guy. He was way above that kind of sweaty grubbiness.”
“Oh…”
And that was that.
And even now, now that I have written this little piece, I still see it all and to me, it was the guy.
Cue Barbara Streisand. “Memories”
Cue Rod Serling and Twilight Zone… ‘You have crossed over into another dimension of sound, sight and mind. You are moving into a land of shadow and substance. Of things and ideas.’
Indeed.