Why do I save some of the seemingly useless the things I save?
Shortly before the pandemic hit, I was writing a song entitled “A Dead Man’s Clothes”. I remember that I finished it shortly after the first lockdown. When the pandemic struck, we were concerned that ET’s caregiver, reliant on public transportation, might not feel safe or be able to travel to work every day. We weren’t sure how serious things would get, and we could not risk the very real possibility that ET would be alone with no caregiver during an extended lockdown. While ET is fiercely independent and generally capable, we insist that she continue to have some assistance in her own home. I drove down to Toronto to bring Shauna’s Mom “ET her to our house to stay until things settled down. She ended up staying with us for several months, and she was here up until the day after Shauna and I brought our new puppy Sydney home to live with us. I finished the above-mentioned song and performed it on Facebook live while ET was still up here and sitting in the room listening. I will always remember that performance.
As I’ve said before, songs are milestones for me. I remember most of the circumstances that influenced the writing of my songs. As the days pour into months and the months spill into years, those songs are fixed markers that remind me of my personal history. Sometimes, when I am on shaky ground, writing those songs centers me. Yesterday, I was out of sorts, to put it mildly. Anxiousness got the better of me, and it seems that my low ebb often coincides with the arrival of a full moon. For some reason, I tend to feel the effects of a full moon a day or two before the actual event. Tonight, marks the rise of the full “pink super moon”. It seems like only yesterday that I remember learning about that pink full moon back in 2020. It was about the time I completed that song.
Why is it that I can’t discard certain
mementos? In the burn basket next to our fireplace is a Buffalo street guide booklet
that I must have saved 7 or 8 years ago when I was cleaning out my parents’
house to be sold. The guide was in a drawer in my father’s desk. I’ve been meaning
to burn it, but every time I look at the old Buffalo ads printed in it, I end
up throwing it back in the burn basket. Judging from those ads, it was likely
printed in the late 50s or early 60s, at the beginning of my life in Buffalo. We
sold so much of what was, for 60 years, a part of our Buffalo family home, but we
did keep some furniture and mementos. I suppose that old street guide is just one more reminder of my distant past. I
just can’t find it within myself to get rid of it. Also in my father’s desk,
probably dating back to the 1940s, was an old theatre program from an opera company.
It had my dad’s handwriting on it. I feel the same sentimental attachment to
that as I do about the guide. I’ll never know why he kept that program. While it
may not make sense to others, I’ve kept it because for some reason it was meaningful
to him.
It was the death of my friend James
Carroll that prompted me to write “A Dead Man’s Clothes”. The song is about
what we leave behind when we die. As songwriter Jon Brooks reminds us, “…if it’s
not love, we can’t take it when we go.” Shauna and I have collected so many vestiges
of lives passed, so many mementos of happy times, and as we age, the collection
grows. I have shirts and jackets that belonged to James, an old cowboy hat that
my dad used to wear, concert tee shirts that belonged to my late brother-in-law,
and a watch my mother gave me. I walk
around our house, and everywhere, there are photos and knickknacks that
belonged to loved ones long gone. In our log home, built on the site of the old
Taylor family cottage, we incorporated many of the windows, doors, and other architectural
features from the old cottage into the construction of our new home. We even converted
the old Guelph wood stove that used to heat that cottage into a wet sink for our
guest bathroom. Every time I look at it or use it to wash my hands, I smile and
remember the cold winter nights when we used it for warmth while we designed
the new home. Who is to say what is valuable to a person, or what will be meaningful
to him or her when we are gone? That is
what my song is about.
“My dad had a cowboy hat he wore out
west
I kept that hat and gave away all the
rest
I put it on sometimes, then I’m up on
his horse
Looking down the mountain at the desert
below.
A coat, a hat to make the memories
last.
I guess I just can’t let go of the
past
Watching my life pour through the
hourglass
Will anyone wear my clothes, when no
shadow do I cast?”
- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2021 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
