The Persistence of Memory

Oh, all right. Call me a sentimental old fool. I’ll cop to the charge. I was rummaging in my archives the other day and I re-discovered Betsy – as she was in the summer of 1966, that is. That’s her on your left. Cute, eh? You betcha. I spent that summer more or less in the warm sunshine of her company – under the watchful eyes of her parents, mind you – while I was in Seattle working for my uncle. But even the watchfullest of parents can’t maintain 24-hour surveillance seven days a week. We had our moments, so we did. Let it go at that. Anyhow, I was way younger then (almost by a factor of three), just turned 21, gainfully employed, and life was boundless. I was 3,000 miles away from the watchful eyes of my own parents, drunk with freedom, love and a springtime torrent of hormones. Betsy and I had some big plans to get together after that summer, but somehow it just never happened. All that persists is the memory. Ah, yes, the memory persists, in the mind of a sentimental old fool retracing his steps and marveling at where they’ve brought him. (By the way, the title of this piece has nothing to do with Salvador Dali’s melting pocket watches).