Random Thoughts

a simple memory

 On palm Sunday I am always reminded of my childhood. I have this memory of helping to split the palms that were to be handed out at church services the next day. After choir practice on Saturday morning others arrived at the parish hall to direct the activity. Palms had arrived in long boxes shipped from I didn’t know where, at the time I figured they must have come from Israel. I wasn’t really aware that they had palm trees in the south and that those palms were the same as those in the Bible stories. The adults opened those boxes and the fronds were placed on the table. It was our task to separate the fronds into strands, if that is the proper term. Whatever the case, I remember doing that. The strands were then placed in wicker baskets to be blessed by Reverend Davis on Sunday. After the service was over everyone was given a palm to take home with them, to bless their home. It is just a simple memory of a time long ago and one I smile about each time I remember it. It was a time of what I can only describe as relaxed. I say relaxed because it was such a comfortable feeling being with those others, splitting palms, and enjoying the comradery. That was a time before I even knew what comradery even was. I would say I had a Waltonesce sort of childhood. It was indeed a simpler time, requiring very little in the way of material things to celebrate an event. The ladies may have provided cookies and a pitcher or two of kool-aid, I don’t really recall, but that was the standard fare for such gatherings. 

 That took place in the kitchen of the parish house. The kitchen had a long table in the center of it, big enough to work on. I can see that table in my minds eye, green  formica top, a chrome trim around the edge and large wooden legs. Nothing fancy about that table, utilitarian in design. That kitchen had a big old gas stove, and lots of cabinets. There was a refrigerator as well. In the far wall of the kitchen was the serving window, the standard design. Normally the domain of the adults cooking those pancake breakfasts or whatever, it was one the few times I worked in that kitchen. Made you feel a bit more grown to be included. It was those subtle little gestures that marked my childhood. Back in those days, in the dark ages, children were treated as children until it was decided they were ready for adult activities. A great deal of what the adults were doing were a mystery to us then, seen and not heard we learned a great deal by simple observation. When it was time to speak, we would be asked. Our responses often determined our “development” in the social hierarchy. Today the kids call that respect, being respected, and valued. In my day we didn’t think about such things, either we could or we couldn’t. You had to earn your place through your actions, the default mode was to be silent. 
 Well, that’s just a memory I cherish from the past. It’s one of those memories that can’t really be shared, it’s personal. That frustrates me at times. I wish I could share the feeling, the emotion, that memory evokes. I could come close to that with others that were there, like my sister, but she is gone now.  I think that is the hardest part in all of that, losing the ones that share your memories. Oh you can tell the stories to others, write them down, sometimes even stir them, but without that first person, I was there, memory, it truly isn’t shared. To be truly shared both have to had participated. Beyond that all we can share is similarity. It’s very close but not the same. Still the memories are what sustain us in the bad times, give us hope for the future. At least they do with me. I’ll be remembering that Saturday afternoon, splitting palms, all day today. Good memories.   

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Ben Reichart Avatar

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Ben Reichart
An aging man living in a confusing world. I was born and raised in East Hampton, yes “the Hamptons” but not rich, not famous and definitely not woke. These are my thoughts, my memories and my opinions. Just the stuff of the regular Joe.
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4 responses to “a simple memory”

  1. Avatar
    Anonymous

    Are you aware that there are MANY types of palm trees? There are 2600 different types of Palms in this world…. many, many in the south, so maybe your assumption that the ones from the church are 'the same as those.' There are coconut palms, date palms, Mexican palms, Palmetto palms, etc. Check it out, so you can be speaking facts and be more accurate

    Reply
  2. Avatar
    Anonymous

    Maybe you don't care what kind of palms they are….just thought you'd like to know that the ones in church might NOT be the same as the southern ones. As for me…I don't like palm trees.

    Reply
  3. Avatar
    Anonymous

    Are you aware that there are MANY types of palm trees? There are 2600 different types of Palms in this world…. many, many in the south, so maybe your assumption that the ones from the church are 'the same as those.' There are coconut palms, date palms, Mexican palms, Palmetto palms, etc. Check it out, so you can be speaking facts and be more accurate

    Reply
  4. Avatar
    Anonymous

    Maybe you don't care what kind of palms they are….just thought you'd like to know that the ones in church might NOT be the same as the southern ones. As for me…I don't like palm trees.

    Reply

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 On palm Sunday I am always reminded of my childhood. I have this memory of helping to split the palms that were to be handed out at church services the next day. After choir practice on Saturday morning others arrived at the parish hall to direct the activity. Palms had arrived in long boxes shipped from I didn’t know where, at the time I figured they must have come from Israel. I wasn’t really aware that they had palm trees in the south and that those palms were the same as those in the Bible stories. The adults opened those boxes and the fronds were placed on the table. It was our task to separate the fronds into strands, if that is the proper term. Whatever the case, I remember doing that. The strands were then placed in wicker baskets to be blessed by Reverend Davis on Sunday. After the service was over everyone was given a palm to take home with them, to bless their home. It is just a simple memory of a time long ago and one I smile about each time I remember it. It was a time of what I can only describe as relaxed. I say relaxed because it was such a comfortable feeling being with those others, splitting palms, and enjoying the comradery. That was a time before I even knew what comradery even was. I would say I had a Waltonesce sort of childhood. It was indeed a simpler time, requiring very little in the way of material things to celebrate an event. The ladies may have provided cookies and a pitcher or two of kool-aid, I don’t really recall, but that was the standard fare for such gatherings. 

 That took place in the kitchen of the parish house. The kitchen had a long table in the center of it, big enough to work on. I can see that table in my minds eye, green  formica top, a chrome trim around the edge and large wooden legs. Nothing fancy about that table, utilitarian in design. That kitchen had a big old gas stove, and lots of cabinets. There was a refrigerator as well. In the far wall of the kitchen was the serving window, the standard design. Normally the domain of the adults cooking those pancake breakfasts or whatever, it was one the few times I worked in that kitchen. Made you feel a bit more grown to be included. It was those subtle little gestures that marked my childhood. Back in those days, in the dark ages, children were treated as children until it was decided they were ready for adult activities. A great deal of what the adults were doing were a mystery to us then, seen and not heard we learned a great deal by simple observation. When it was time to speak, we would be asked. Our responses often determined our “development” in the social hierarchy. Today the kids call that respect, being respected, and valued. In my day we didn’t think about such things, either we could or we couldn’t. You had to earn your place through your actions, the default mode was to be silent. 
 Well, that’s just a memory I cherish from the past. It’s one of those memories that can’t really be shared, it’s personal. That frustrates me at times. I wish I could share the feeling, the emotion, that memory evokes. I could come close to that with others that were there, like my sister, but she is gone now.  I think that is the hardest part in all of that, losing the ones that share your memories. Oh you can tell the stories to others, write them down, sometimes even stir them, but without that first person, I was there, memory, it truly isn’t shared. To be truly shared both have to had participated. Beyond that all we can share is similarity. It’s very close but not the same. Still the memories are what sustain us in the bad times, give us hope for the future. At least they do with me. I’ll be remembering that Saturday afternoon, splitting palms, all day today. Good memories.   

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 On palm Sunday I am always reminded of my childhood. I have this memory of helping to split the palms that were to be handed out at church services the next day. After choir practice on Saturday morning others arrived at the parish hall to direct the activity. Palms had arrived in long boxes shipped from I didn’t know where, at the time I figured they must have come from Israel. I wasn’t really aware that they had palm trees in the south and that those palms were the same as those in the Bible stories. The adults opened those boxes and the fronds were placed on the table. It was our task to separate the fronds into strands, if that is the proper term. Whatever the case, I remember doing that. The strands were then placed in wicker baskets to be blessed by Reverend Davis on Sunday. After the service was over everyone was given a palm to take home with them, to bless their home. It is just a simple memory of a time long ago and one I smile about each time I remember it. It was a time of what I can only describe as relaxed. I say relaxed because it was such a comfortable feeling being with those others, splitting palms, and enjoying the comradery. That was a time before I even knew what comradery even was. I would say I had a Waltonesce sort of childhood. It was indeed a simpler time, requiring very little in the way of material things to celebrate an event. The ladies may have provided cookies and a pitcher or two of kool-aid, I don’t really recall, but that was the standard fare for such gatherings. 

 That took place in the kitchen of the parish house. The kitchen had a long table in the center of it, big enough to work on. I can see that table in my minds eye, green  formica top, a chrome trim around the edge and large wooden legs. Nothing fancy about that table, utilitarian in design. That kitchen had a big old gas stove, and lots of cabinets. There was a refrigerator as well. In the far wall of the kitchen was the serving window, the standard design. Normally the domain of the adults cooking those pancake breakfasts or whatever, it was one the few times I worked in that kitchen. Made you feel a bit more grown to be included. It was those subtle little gestures that marked my childhood. Back in those days, in the dark ages, children were treated as children until it was decided they were ready for adult activities. A great deal of what the adults were doing were a mystery to us then, seen and not heard we learned a great deal by simple observation. When it was time to speak, we would be asked. Our responses often determined our “development” in the social hierarchy. Today the kids call that respect, being respected, and valued. In my day we didn’t think about such things, either we could or we couldn’t. You had to earn your place through your actions, the default mode was to be silent. 
 Well, that’s just a memory I cherish from the past. It’s one of those memories that can’t really be shared, it’s personal. That frustrates me at times. I wish I could share the feeling, the emotion, that memory evokes. I could come close to that with others that were there, like my sister, but she is gone now.  I think that is the hardest part in all of that, losing the ones that share your memories. Oh you can tell the stories to others, write them down, sometimes even stir them, but without that first person, I was there, memory, it truly isn’t shared. To be truly shared both have to had participated. Beyond that all we can share is similarity. It’s very close but not the same. Still the memories are what sustain us in the bad times, give us hope for the future. At least they do with me. I’ll be remembering that Saturday afternoon, splitting palms, all day today. Good memories.   

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