Dunderman, Forrest A.

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36 :MAN useRIPT::;came to greet them. I-Ie shook hands with Mr. and Mrs: Stanley andthen knelt beside little Pete and began to speak the beautiful languagePete had been tausht in his Italian home. Little Pete threw his armsaround the doctorand began in a very excited voice to plead with thedoctor to explain to his new parents that he could never have anotherleg. The doctor silencecl the excited child and ask him in hisbeautiful Italian tongue, "Little Pete, clo you remember me?"Little Pete was stunned but he shook his head and searched thedoctor's face for some feature that he might remember. There didseem to be something familiar about this man, but he could notremember him. The doctor said, "Little Pete, I am the doctor whowas with the American Medical Unit in your home in Italy. I amthe doctor who took your torn leg from you. Now, do you rememberme and will you trust me ?"The whole process of making little Pete a brand new leg tookabout two months, the time it took little Pete to learn all overagain those things like running, skipping, hopping or jumping wasjust a matter of days. Neighbors were amazed as they watchedlittle Pete skip and run on his wonderful new leg. They are stilltalking about the afternoon when the little boy from Italy won theannual sack race for five-year olds.Long, Long AgoForrest A. DundermanIT.SEEMs TO ME that pleasant memories are. a great deal like oldphotographs that have been tucked away 111 a drawer [or safel~eeping-too ephemeral to be really useful, yet too cherished tobe discarded. They are taken out from time to time for a thoroughdusting and airing, then returned to the darkness from which theycame. Each dusting and airing, evoking a pleasant nostalgia as itinevitably cloes, diminishes the chance of the image'S becoming cloudyor faded and increases the value of the photograph for having growna little older. Time mellows ancl softens the pictures perhaps, but theoutlines, the impressions seem to last forever. So it is with thememories which we recall with pleasure at ocld moments, those flightsback to the experiences of another day, richer by far, it seems, thanthose at hand. Each recollection of some bygone pleasure sharpensand enhances the image, glorifying it beyond all possible reason.Taking SOme treasured memory out for its dusting and airing isinfinitely more satisfying than a conscious flight into fancy. Day-dreams are transitory and unreal; memories are harbored in themind for having once been actual experiences.MANUSCRIPTS 37Who among you does not consider memories of his childhoodthe pleasantest in his little store? Those were the days of simpleunaffected pleasures, long before the weight of responsibility andcare settled upon willing, or unwilling shoulders. Those were daysof real excitement, for experiences were new anel the impressions theymade were vivid and lasting. It is not quite by chance that myearliest recollections are about the rain. My father was a man whoenjoyed nothing more than watching a rainstorm from a vantagepoint too distant from the house for my mother's peace of mind.She was morbidly afraid of storms and held to the old belief thatfamilies should sit quietly together in one room until the "crisis," asshe called it, had passed. I remember that my father, ignoringMother's unfounded fears, took me with him to the garage or ontoa porch where we stood watching the storm just out of its reach.Sometimes the wind would change direction and drive the rain inupon us, and I would laugh with childish excitement. Always therewas a strange exhiliration at seeing the flashes of lighting and hear-ing the acompanying rolls of thunder. In another connection withthe rain, I recall the comfortable feeling of security that I had when Iwould take my book and sit as close to the downpour as I couldwithout getting wet. Often during a storm, I sat in the familyautomobile where the feeling of snugness and closeness to the rainwas even greater. Of all the memories of my childhood, I think theremembered fascination of watching the rain and the purely physicalelation of being warm and protected from it gives me the greatestpleasure. I recall too, as a little boy, how my mother bundled me upon a cold day and put me out-of-doors to play in the sun. At firstI was very cold and I had to move about quickly to keep warm. ThenI sat on the cement steps to rest, and I remember that the gentlewarmth which the sun had given them would slowly melt the ice in myveins. Again, it is that feeling of physical snugness, the same kindof satisfaction one gets from sitting in a pleasant room near anopen fire while a blizzard rages without, that lends such pleasure tothe recollection ..Memories of childhood, like daydreams, actually may serve nopractical purpose; indeed, may people argue that calling up recollec-tions of the past, pleasant or otherwise, is neither constructive norinventive. The cry is, "Forward! Don't look back!" I wonderhow often this advice is heeded by those fortunate individuals whosemental images of childhood are pleasant enough to take out for anairing now and then. Not very often, I should say. Living theirpast again, savoring the pleasure of some long-ago experience, is anerstwhile escape hom the stark reality and pressure of the moment.It is warming to the spirit, just as the cement steps were warminz toa little boy who shivered in the cold. b

Long, Long Ago

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Long, Long Ago

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