Thank you so much for this personal story. I totally enjoyed reading it, but my favorite line is the final one. My grandmother, a Jewish lady with very little religion, once told me that her belief in the afterlife was that as long as someone still remembered her, her spirit survived. I am now 82 and I still remember her. It is my intention to keep her alive until I can join her wherever she is.
Hi Vincent, this is your cousin, Pat Fitzgerald, Uncle Leo's youngest. I so enjoyed your post. It all brings back so many memories for me. What you wrote made me realize that forgetting our memories is not the worst thing because they are still within us. They are us. Thank you!
Aw. Thank you for sharing that. Losing a parent to Alzheimer's is gut-wrenching--my mother passed from it nearly ten years ago. I'm so glad the essay spoke to you. While much of it was fun to write, the process of writing such a tribute was also a form of grieving.
Oh I could feel so much in your writing piece. I, too, have always loved The Carpenter’s. In so glad I got to read this today. You are incredibly talented!
Thanks very much! And I thank my wonderful editor, Sari Botton, for linking the album to the post. (I admit I listened to a few notes right away, for old time's sake.)
I like to picture all of the selves that I have been, and still contain, within me. They are all involved in my life decisions, all have gifts to give, and even though only seen by me, are always very much alive. I feel, therefore I am....
Great article. As a 19yo college student when the song came out, I didn't care for the Carpenters, who seemed totally uncool. But for some reason, about a decade ago, when my mother (20 years older) was very deep into Alzheimer's and we'd visit her every day at the nursing home (within walking distance from home), "We've Only Just Begun" was one of the two songs that made her visibly happy. (The other was Harry Belafonte's version of "Hava Nagila.") So I got used to it.
Thanks for sharing, and sorry for your loss. I also lost my mother to Alzheimer's nearly a decade ago. As for that song, it just seems to have tremendous "staying power." So glad it was able to reach your mother and make her happy in those difficult times. That is very poignant.
Thank you. I’d forgotten Big Wheels but I’m sure my son hasn’t. I haven’t forgotten him on his.
I was a go-to-work single Dad with a Phd and an academic job which made it somewhat easier. But still hard because at the time single Moms I knew rightly viewed and unjustly resented me as privileged.
Married three times, the third with Fran was my privilege. Now widowed, at 87 I’m a writer. “Men as Friends” is my memoir. It’s been reviewed nowhere but so it goes with first-timers. I’ve published in Oldsters. I’m on the cusp of writing another memoir about Fran, cancer and me—“I remember and I imagine, therefore I still am”.
I loved the Carpenters. I can remember Rainy Days and Mondays playing as I entered Nevada on my way across the country in the '62 Falcon late summer 1971.
My own memories go back to my first year. My second memory: We're driving up the hill where we lived in Seattle. I'm lying on my back in my bassinet in the back seat of the Studebaker. My father, driving, says, "We're almost home."
But what happens to the people we remember, when our own memories are gone? I sometimes feel like a curator of my family's past. I save the things that were important to them. What happens to the handknitted sweaters when I go?
Who wouldn't love to get a gift of a hand-knitted item... especially coming into wintertime ? Whatever you decide may I suggest you tag it with the maker & who it was originally made for & why /a bit of bio? These are heirlooms and deserve to be documented /treasured before being passed on to hopefully some grateful & lucky person. Otherwise maybe a wool shop maybe able to assist you.Thank you for posting.
That photo! Oh my. What a blessing (and a curse sometimes?) to have access to evidence of our childhoods, the parts we remember and those we don't. And, yes, we get to keep our parents and other family alive that way. For a recent birthday, my brother scanned hundreds of old slides and we had a family Zoom flashback extravaganza. Crazy and fun and scary in its own way. Elders are all gone now.
For we five children, it was The Beatles' Abbey Road - we used to dance around the living room to "Here Comes the Sun." Your post really resonated with me. Thank you.
Vincent, I was first drawn to your essay by the endearing picture of your first wedding. Then you evoked memories with the Carpenters, being the youngest and feeling left out (but I never received a big wheel or the like) and the remembrance of those no longer with us, with keep them alive in our hearts. I loved your essay.
Thank you so much for this personal story. I totally enjoyed reading it, but my favorite line is the final one. My grandmother, a Jewish lady with very little religion, once told me that her belief in the afterlife was that as long as someone still remembered her, her spirit survived. I am now 82 and I still remember her. It is my intention to keep her alive until I can join her wherever she is.
Hi Vincent, this is your cousin, Pat Fitzgerald, Uncle Leo's youngest. I so enjoyed your post. It all brings back so many memories for me. What you wrote made me realize that forgetting our memories is not the worst thing because they are still within us. They are us. Thank you!
Thanks very much Pat!
Sounds like my childhood! I listened to that Carpenters album a LOT and my brother had the big wheel which terrorized the neighborhood at 7 AM!
Your last line made me weep. Yes indeed! I lost my Dad to Alzheimer’s a few years ago…”I still remember, therefore He still is.” Thank you.
Aw. Thank you for sharing that. Losing a parent to Alzheimer's is gut-wrenching--my mother passed from it nearly ten years ago. I'm so glad the essay spoke to you. While much of it was fun to write, the process of writing such a tribute was also a form of grieving.
Oh I could feel so much in your writing piece. I, too, have always loved The Carpenter’s. In so glad I got to read this today. You are incredibly talented!
Thanks very much! And I thank my wonderful editor, Sari Botton, for linking the album to the post. (I admit I listened to a few notes right away, for old time's sake.)
I like to picture all of the selves that I have been, and still contain, within me. They are all involved in my life decisions, all have gifts to give, and even though only seen by me, are always very much alive. I feel, therefore I am....
Love it.
Great article. As a 19yo college student when the song came out, I didn't care for the Carpenters, who seemed totally uncool. But for some reason, about a decade ago, when my mother (20 years older) was very deep into Alzheimer's and we'd visit her every day at the nursing home (within walking distance from home), "We've Only Just Begun" was one of the two songs that made her visibly happy. (The other was Harry Belafonte's version of "Hava Nagila.") So I got used to it.
Thanks for sharing, and sorry for your loss. I also lost my mother to Alzheimer's nearly a decade ago. As for that song, it just seems to have tremendous "staying power." So glad it was able to reach your mother and make her happy in those difficult times. That is very poignant.
Awww.
Thank you. I’d forgotten Big Wheels but I’m sure my son hasn’t. I haven’t forgotten him on his.
I was a go-to-work single Dad with a Phd and an academic job which made it somewhat easier. But still hard because at the time single Moms I knew rightly viewed and unjustly resented me as privileged.
Married three times, the third with Fran was my privilege. Now widowed, at 87 I’m a writer. “Men as Friends” is my memoir. It’s been reviewed nowhere but so it goes with first-timers. I’ve published in Oldsters. I’m on the cusp of writing another memoir about Fran, cancer and me—“I remember and I imagine, therefore I still am”.
What thoughtful and loving parents- a Big Wheel to assuage a broken heart.
I loved the Carpenters. I can remember Rainy Days and Mondays playing as I entered Nevada on my way across the country in the '62 Falcon late summer 1971.
My own memories go back to my first year. My second memory: We're driving up the hill where we lived in Seattle. I'm lying on my back in my bassinet in the back seat of the Studebaker. My father, driving, says, "We're almost home."
and Streisand's The Way We Were for scattered pictures
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_NqBWLeP9f4
But what happens to the people we remember, when our own memories are gone? I sometimes feel like a curator of my family's past. I save the things that were important to them. What happens to the handknitted sweaters when I go?
Who wouldn't love to get a gift of a hand-knitted item... especially coming into wintertime ? Whatever you decide may I suggest you tag it with the maker & who it was originally made for & why /a bit of bio? These are heirlooms and deserve to be documented /treasured before being passed on to hopefully some grateful & lucky person. Otherwise maybe a wool shop maybe able to assist you.Thank you for posting.
What a wonderful idea, I love that someone would know about my mom, or aunt or grandma, they would live on
Good question that maybe has no answer?
That photo! Oh my. What a blessing (and a curse sometimes?) to have access to evidence of our childhoods, the parts we remember and those we don't. And, yes, we get to keep our parents and other family alive that way. For a recent birthday, my brother scanned hundreds of old slides and we had a family Zoom flashback extravaganza. Crazy and fun and scary in its own way. Elders are all gone now.
For we five children, it was The Beatles' Abbey Road - we used to dance around the living room to "Here Comes the Sun." Your post really resonated with me. Thank you.
So glad you enjoyed it!
Such a beautiful post . I can envision that too ;speeding down a long a driveway on your Big Wheel until the wheels wore down to air.
Vincent, I was first drawn to your essay by the endearing picture of your first wedding. Then you evoked memories with the Carpenters, being the youngest and feeling left out (but I never received a big wheel or the like) and the remembrance of those no longer with us, with keep them alive in our hearts. I loved your essay.
Thanks very much! I'm glad it spoke to you.