An unexpected shot of nostalgia

Recently I ventured out of the woods, drove to a nearby town, Springsteen on the radio singing something about a river, to receive a second shot of a COVID-19 vaccine, which was injected into my right arm, just above a tattoo circling my old man bicep. For me it was an amazingly nostalgic experience, one I hadn't expected. The location for the shots was the old gymnasium at the high school from which I almost didn't graduate many years ago.

Other than an occasional chat with the generous neighbor who mowed my yard and plowed my lane last year I've not had many real conversations in more than a year and here in front of me in an old gym were many people of my acquaintance. I'll bet I chatted with a dozen people, from an old friend who has worked as a custodian at the school for decades, to the woman checking me in, still beautiful after more than 50 years out of school. I spoke with a woman who had been my babysitter in the 1950s, a woman who too has lost a spouse and she told me that, with patience, it gets better.

And there was one of my high school English teachers who must be how old, 150 maybe? Anyway, he didn't recognize me so I let it go. I have been asked over the years if there was a teacher along the way who encouraged me, perhaps one who helped me learn to write. The answer is always a definitive ‘no,' but this particular teacher did even more for me. He taught me that I needed to look well beyond the limitations handed to me in life, limitations imposed by my parents, by my school, by my church, by my own ignorance and by all of those institutions that work to keep us from liftoff. Because then, and only then, can real writing occur. It was good to see him out and about.

Feeling confident about my newfound ability to fend off COVID-19 I stopped to pick up a few things at a grocery store where nostalgia again stepped forward. The young man hauling my groceries to the car was right out of the 1950s, short Black hair, all Brylcreemed up. Me? An animal from the 60s, my hair is now past my shoulders. We were an odd pair walking to my car in the morning sunlight, him a freshman in high school and me turning 70 this year, and we laughed a lot, agreeing that young men should cease sporting bangs.

Back at home the melt and muck continues unabated, my least favorite time of year. Down in the hollow last night coyotes were clearly upset about something, like one of those meetings wherein an angry public shows up to express its views, knowing that government officials will act like they're listening, say a few conciliatory words, and do what they planned to do anyway. Perhaps my friends in the hollow heard about the recent slaughter of gray wolves in nearby Wisconsin. I don't really know.

I wandered off. Sorry. Back to nostalgia. In a recent New York Times op/ed writer Leslie Jamison wrote, 'Nostalgia for the past is also a way of believing in the future.” I like the sentiment but let me say that we cannot dwell in the house of nostalgia forever. It's tempting, but that way, my friends, lies madness and unhappiness. For those of you who have lost a loved one in the past difficult year you have my sympathy, empathy, and my heartfelt condolences. I'm with you.

Later this year, late Summer, early Autumn, I truly do hope to hold a celebration for all of those we've lost, perhaps big white tents in the field between my house and the graveled road up on the ridge. There will be food, beverages, and love. We will talk, and we'll cry. I want you all to attend. And when sweet lamentations begin to fade let us, you and I together, raise a glass to a future worthy of those who went before.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book 'The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.