Memories. They have a way of popping up at random times in life. A reason? I’d like to think so, maybe more of a reminder, a needed lookback when you just need to recall things positive, perhaps?

Recently, The Husband (as he’s known in my writing world) needed linseed oil for a repair project. I recalled my high school art case, tucked away up in our attic and gave him exact “PPS” (my version of navigation) directions. Up he went, promptly located the wooden case, and brought it down, asking “when was the last time you opened this?”. I ignored him, and for good reason; he’s like our attic police chief, each time he ventures up there, there is some interrogation from above as to the origins/necessity of every damn thing he ends up climbing over. Come on now, it’s an attic, you know, the epicenter of storage for things seasonal, useful and plumb forgotton about? Kind of like the center console or glove compartment in the car, or, that one drawer in the kitchen?

In any event, my art case was handed to me, the linseed oil given to the attic warden and I pulled out a sketch book while thinking back to art work I left at my late mother’s home years ago. Sadly, during her rampage with Alzheimer’s, much of my work was discarded by her, mainly because she had no idea where it came from or who it belonged to…that person being me.

Tucked in between the pages of the book were two charcoal sketches I did, way back in the 60’s, both of sailboats. One sketch was of a vessel belonging to my late father, a 36′ Gaff Rigged Cutter and that bit of artwork was done from a photograph taken during a cruise on Long Island Sound, here in New York. The odd memory which presented itself was the date I again found these old sketches, July 7th, the very date my father purchased his sailboat, back in 1963.

Memories can be an emotional road trip; even bittersweet ones are better than nothing.