The post below is a repeat of the posting for September 1st 2009. I've changed a couple of things to accommodate the passing of another year, but otherwise this is a re-run. It remains relevant for me, so I'd like to request your indulgence on the repeat, just this once. Thanks.
Once upon a time and long ago, on the 1st of September, there was a restaurant and lounge in Merrimack, New Hampshire called The Village Squire. Mama and Daddy took me there for dinner—our standing Friday night date—and we three made a pact: no matter where the years might lead us, September 1st would be our anniversary. We would meet for dinner every September 1st, we promised, no matter what. I still have the red matchbook bearing the restaurant logo. When I flip the cover I see the date, written in the sloping cursive of my 17-year-old self: September 1, 1978.
This, the 1st of September 2010, marks the 32nd anniversary of that dinner. I wish I could remember details about that night, but in typical teenage fashion I took for granted the hours spent. If I could live it again I would take photos and write a detailed journal; I would make note of the menu and the waiter’s name and the topics of conversation. I would memorize every sound, color, and scent; every bit of laughter and nuance of conversation. I would savor those things which, in my youth, I could not imagine ever being without.
I remember snippets, such as Daddy wearing a tweed sport coat and Mama’s charm bracelet jangling. Daddy drank a vodka martini with extra olives and Mama ordered scotch and water on the rocks (with a lemon twist). Before dinner drinks were sipped, not slurped, and dinner—seafood, I think—lasted for a couple of hours, not a couple of minutes. There were white linen tablecloths and I sat next to Mama in the booth with Daddy across from us. It sounds formal, but it was very casual, and we were silly and laughed a lot. I had just graduated from high school the June before, so I imagine we discussed my plans to attend the University of Las Vegas in the spring. Daddy was a philosopher at heart, so the conversation may have veered toward lofty things. God help me, I cannot remember. I want so much to remember.
Subsequent Septembers came and went, and for a few years we celebrated on the first day of the month to honor our pledge. But our pact gave way to life—marriage and babies and moves and illness and death. Before Mama and Daddy died we rarely forgot our special day and, over the telephone and the separation of a thousand miles, we would share a glass of wine to commemorate th
at first dinner.
I pray that right now my parents are together holding hands on a heavenly beach, watching over me and calling out, “Happy anniversary, Snowflake!” And in their honor I lift my wine glass and say, “Happy September 1st to the best parents God created. I will love you forever and miss you always, and I hope I’ve made you proud.”
Love,
Snowflake
This, the 1st of September 2010, marks the 32nd anniversary of that dinner. I wish I could remember details about that night, but in typical teenage fashion I took for granted the hours spent. If I could live it again I would take photos and write a detailed journal; I would make note of the menu and the waiter’s name and the topics of conversation. I would memorize every sound, color, and scent; every bit of laughter and nuance of conversation. I would savor those things which, in my youth, I could not imagine ever being without.
I remember snippets, such as Daddy wearing a tweed sport coat and Mama’s charm bracelet jangling. Daddy drank a vodka martini with extra olives and Mama ordered scotch and water on the rocks (with a lemon twist). Before dinner drinks were sipped, not slurped, and dinner—seafood, I think—lasted for a couple of hours, not a couple of minutes. There were white linen tablecloths and I sat next to Mama in the booth with Daddy across from us. It sounds formal, but it was very casual, and we were silly and laughed a lot. I had just graduated from high school the June before, so I imagine we discussed my plans to attend the University of Las Vegas in the spring. Daddy was a philosopher at heart, so the conversation may have veered toward lofty things. God help me, I cannot remember. I want so much to remember.
Subsequent Septembers came and went, and for a few years we celebrated on the first day of the month to honor our pledge. But our pact gave way to life—marriage and babies and moves and illness and death. Before Mama and Daddy died we rarely forgot our special day and, over the telephone and the separation of a thousand miles, we would share a glass of wine to commemorate th
at first dinner.I pray that right now my parents are together holding hands on a heavenly beach, watching over me and calling out, “Happy anniversary, Snowflake!” And in their honor I lift my wine glass and say, “Happy September 1st to the best parents God created. I will love you forever and miss you always, and I hope I’ve made you proud.”
Love,
Snowflake
