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 We attended our friends wedding 

and as part of the mood they wanted to create

they were married in a chapel…built in 1888.

What made their wedding even more special to us was…

when they arranged it they didn’t know

it’s the same chapel Deborah and I were married in

37 years ago. 

It was a different day…a different month

and for us…a different milestone…

a time when our children were still children…

now they have lives and families of their own.

But as I saw our friends walk down the aisle

and exchange vows…as happy as can be.

that moment 37 years ago 

came flooding back to me.

I saw us in this very chapel

with or friends an family seated in these pews

young and happy 37 years ago..as if it was brand new.

And for a moment…even though I know

we’ve both grown old and gray…

in the beauty of my memory it seemed like yesterday.

So I was doubly happy seated in the chapel

as our two wedding combined…

Their wedding we were attending…

and my wedding…in my mind.

I was as happy for them as I was for Deborah and me

knowing we are all forever a part of this chapel’s history.

A history of when we came together

Joined our hands…our souls…our hearts

Under the roof of this old chapel…

37 years apart.

]May we be blessed in life to have the insight…

the wisdom 

the enlightenment 

to see

how we can never truly estimate the value of time…

or put a price on a memory

I am grateful for my memory…

grateful, over the years, for all the memories I have caught…

and grateful that, although time moves in only one direction,

my memory does not.

Our cabin in North Carolina was built by Deborah’s mom and dad in 1983…

It rests on the side of a mountain…nestled in among the trees.

When Deborah’s dad was alive he had a garden terraced off at the bottom of the yard.

He built a pathway to this garden…to make the walk down there…not quite as hard.

This was no easy task…you have to understand… 

as he molded each square out of cement…and placed them in the ground by hand.

When our family would visit in the summer time…

our children would run up and down his steps with smiles and wide eyes..

to pick vegetables and blackberries from his garden…play in the woods

or in the evening to chase fireflies….

Our grandchildren used his steps to take them to a fort we made when they were small

Our dog Whitman used his steps chasing countless tennis balls.

When Grandpa was alive he kept his steps in perfect condition…

clean with no weeds around them,…

because he knew when we would visit…our children would be running up and down them.

But Grandpa is no longer with us and our children and grandchildren have grown…

which means Grandpa’s path…once used to play on and explore…

those 41 steps that led to countless adventures…aren’t used as often anymore. 

As children grow their interests change and their desires to play in the yard wane…

now on Grandpa’s path…up and down those steps…only memories remain…

But that doesn’t stop me every summer…once we arrive…

from taking a hoe a sickle and a little brush too..

and cleaning off each step on the path…just like Grandpa used to do.

It is a labor of love…making sure Grandpa’s path is as perfect as it used to be…

because on the one hand I know somewhere…Grandpa’s smiling down on me…

But I also have an ulterior motive…each year I’m on my own crusade

to make that path exactly the way it was when our children’s memories were made.

So if you happen to visit us in the summer at the cabin…

and you see an old main in the yard with a hoe, a sickle and a little brush too

Don’t be alarmed…he’s just getting an old path ready for summer…

just like Grandpa use to do.

When we would visit Grandpa…at first we were impatient…we’d say,

Grandpa, get up…it’s time to go…but Grandpa in his ways was set…

and from his favorite chair with eyes closed he’d smile, wave his hand and answer,

“I’m in the middle of a memory and I’m not ready to leave her yet.”

If you saw my Grandma and Grandpa you knew immediately 

their hearts and souls were intertwined.

You knew they had the kind of love in life we all hope to find.

Grandpa explained his love for her to me one day, he said,

“The moment our paths crossed…

in her I found a part of me I never knew I lost.”

I imagine it was the same for Grandma..who’s smile was brighter than the sun…

for how she loved to tell me about the exact moment their two hearts became one.

They made a lifetime of memories together and now that Grandma’s gone

It is those lifetime of memories Grandpa likes to sit and focus on.

Now, when we visit Grandpa and he’s visiting one of his memories… 

we know not to interrupt…

we know his memories of Grandma…we are never to disrupt.

So we wait silently and patiently for him to join us…

because, as I say, we know….

when he has finished visiting her memory…

he’ll let us when it’s time to go.

One of the beauties of life…the longer I live…the more I see…

Is that I never know what will come along to trigger a memory.

A mother bought her daughter a book in the store the other day…

but what made that moment sweet…. 

was when her daughter looked up at me from in front of the counter and asked,

“May I please have the receipt?”

She beamed when I handed her the receipt 

saying it was the first receipt she’d ever gotten.

and the smile that lit up her face I hope shall never be forgotten.

It reminded me of one of my grandson’s early birthdays…and an interesting paradox…

when he ignored the gift we’d given him…choosing instead to play inside the box.

Reminding me how children see with their imaginations…all the journeys to be amassed…

and how a box not only holds a present…but a way into the future and the past.

Children understand a box can be anything…according to their mood or attitude.

It could be a mansion on a hill, a cave deep in the forest…a fortress of solitude. 

A box can be a rocket ship blasting into outer space….

Or a stagecoach drawn by horses…with robbers giving chase.

A box can be a castle surrounded by a moat…it’s spires tall and grand…

It can be a time machine taking them back to when dinosaurs roamed the land.

A box can be a schooner battling monsters out at sea…

Anything a child can imagine…is what a box can be.

I don not know what that little girl was imagining when I handed her the receipt…

but I’d like to thank her for reminding me of a memory old and sweet.

Which makes me wonder if every time we sell a children’s book to a parent…

when it’s the child we are looking at…

If, after handing them the receipt, we should ask…

would you like a box with that?

I’m never quite sure when I wake up where the spark of a new poem will begin

but the other day two old friend were talking

and a spark ignited while I had the privilege of listening in.

I’ve heard these two old friends talk many times…

after all…isn’t that what old friends do?

They talk about life, about friends, about children and grandchildren…

as they share a memory…or two.

And that’s the way this conversation was going…when suddenly…out of the blue…

one friend turned to the other and said, “Did you know…my first memory…was you?”

As I say I’ve heard many of their conversations over the years

but the the way these five words blended was new…

and I thought…how wonderful it must have been 

for one friend to say…and the other to hear

My first memory was you.

They grew up and are growing old together…these two old friends.

and in a lifetime of sharing words attached to their memories… 

I can’t imagine any of their words were more meaningful

or more beautiful..than these.

Yes, for years I’ve heard them speak comforting words to one another…

In times of joy…and even when their hearts were broken…

but I have never felt more lucky an honored 

than to be in the room when these five words were spoken.

I have been blessed to hear some beautiful words in my life:

I love you…

Congratulations your a father

Dad

PopPop

I do

And I’m happy to add to this wonderful list 

the words

My first memory…was you.

I think of my memory as this vast and endless library within my mind. 

My library, just like yours, is unique unto itself…

where once an experience becomes a memory…

It finds its place upon the shelf.

This library collects all my memories…every dream, every comedy…every tragedy…

sometimes in prose…sometimes in rhyme…

from the moment my eyes first open…

until they close for the very last time.

The beauty of this library is how…out of the blue…

something can trigger a memory

A song…and aroma…a photo…an old friend we happen to greet…. 

and those memories fly right off the shelf…

and land directly at my feet.

Other times I’ll search the shelves until I find a memory that makes me smile

I’ll dust it off…open it up…and visit with it for a while.

I suppose one of the keys to happiness…

in all the years of our life span…

Is to fill the shelves of our library with as many memories as we can.

So…when we’re older…as through these stacks of memories we climb….

we’ll never run out of memories…before we run out of time.