Very few things make me feel old.

Last week I finished up one of the Bear Gryll’s Challenge books with my son, and I thought we had finished them all. When that happens, I will usually spend a bedtime or two in a Shel Silverstein book. Those offer a nice change of pace, but eventually in order to teach appreciation of a good story, there needs to be a more cohesive, chapter oriented book.

I saw the Hardy Boys box set on the shelf and realized that those hadn’t been revisited in awhile.  By “awhile” I mean, the last time I tried to read one was maybe a year ago and the 6 year old just wasn’t interested. At the time, I blamed it on his age and reminded myself that I was probably closer to 9 years old when I read those books.

So I whipped out Hardy Boys #5 “Hunting for Hidden Gold” and began reading it. After reading two chapters, comparing it to the Bear Gryll’s Challenge books is a real shock to the system. The Gryll’s Challenge books are youth, even kid oriented. They’re easy to read and they move right along. The style is super approachable.

On the other hand, the Hardy Boys writing style is antiquated… okay, maybe not Charles Dickens, but certainly a struggle. There are more words, bigger words, and due to the age of the books, there are plenty of words and phrases that are completely dated.

It seems like showing a rotary phone to a kid. They might recognize it because its shape is in textbooks and icons, but they would not understand how to operate it.

I bought the box set because I have fond memories of reading them when I was a kid. Joe and Frank were always fishing, running around on motorcycles, and generally everything seemed like such an adventure, but now I am not sure I can finish these books. Even if I waited a few years, I would likely have to make it a mandatory read for school, and I am not sure there is any value there.

This seems like a good reminder of how we operate on nostalgia and why marketing efforts try to hard to hook into human nature. It’s a reminder to me to think through these kinds of purchases, don’t rely on the past so much, and stop (figuratively) shaking my fist at the youth. Geeez.

Get off my lawn!

 

 

I sat there after the old song with tears trickling down my face. I felt ancient, and young at the same time, as the last notes vibrate out of the speakers. This song I had not heard in decades had thoroughly penetrated the present reality that I existed in.

How long had it been? Twenty years? More? The memories of concerts experienced came back along with the shame of the age I had been in. Had I truly insisted on paying the way for my mentor and his wife? I had, and I ignored his protest and buried the memory. Remembering it now felt like hacking a firewall on my memory, but I wrestled through knowing that each successful recall cemented that feeling in my psyche. It struck me that he let it go, and I was grateful because I could not have understood my reasoning.

I remember driving my green machine with the white wheels ten years prior while this music blasted on the tinny speakers. I sang at the top of my lungs daily. My teenage years were built on this music, this man who invested his life and soul into one, solitary thing. This man who still plays and sings with the purpose that he had fifty years ago.

As I listen now the memories flood in. There is a solid attachment despite the temporal distance. Even in my logical world it makes me believe in emotions, in the layered platform that is my self. I realize that I am not myself without these memories and experiences.

I once saw a bumper sticker stating that ‘Music is Life’ and I scoffed. Air is Life, I thought, or maybe food. Not music, not art. But what is life without the core of the emotional being that exists underneath the meat and software? That being is art, belief, and emotion all bound up with what little logic can be deciphered from the patterns perceived.

But occasionally, I believe. I remember, ache, and cry with the soul of me, with the vitality of young memories. I recall how, many years ago, I was manufactured. I remember the burns as I was welded into the scarred form I would ultimately take. My fresh brain was so sensitive, and it absorbed the emotions so completely.

 

What joys and burns formed you?

What music is etched into your DNA?

What brings unbidden tears to your eyes?

And ultimately, what part of that beautiful innocence of youth would you reintroduce into yourself today if you could? I hope that it would remind you of the years gone by and of the truth that though our emotional responses are dulled by the passing of time,they made us who we are.

There is value in the past.