For the sake of remembrance

It is mainly this morning when I attempt to mind-connect recent events. I sit in the company of my simmering woodstove as a mean November clatters at my window. Just beyond, a robin is perched on a branch of a buckthorn tree. The bird awaits gusts of wind to fetch the fine endtwigs that hold ripened black-coloured berries: When a twig bounces within proximity, as if spear fishing, a quick jab of the robin’s beak wins the fruit.

I remove the high-pink sticky note I had left on my computer reminding me to go to Trenton. That mission happened Friday last. It was one of those mornings that if you’re not in bright spirits you want to delete the melancholy skies from consciousness. So I arrived to an awaiting parking space on Trenton’s main drag. My car conveniently parked, I fed the meter and headed to my destination, a thrift shop.

Seldom do I spot something in a thrift store auction that compels me to place a written bid and then actually follow that up by attending the auction’s final moments on the scheduled day. I went to check the three-ring binder that held item descriptions to see if any other bidders had upped my determined offer for item #38—two vintage marching drums. I had spotted the instruments hanging above the main counter a number of weeks past and I sensed a story in them, or so I convinced myself. They were drums from an earlier era and it was the simple way that they were suspended on the wall that spoke of the drums as being world weary. The aesthetic of their worn-ability was enough to sell me. The main connection here is that I’m a percussionist, introduced to playing drums in first year of high school at the age of fourteen. With only minor occasions of parade drumming in my past, my favourite is jazz and I have never stopped playing since.

So this morning with the final bids to be judged at 11 a.m. and me arriving early I studied the drums from afar. Then began to self-analyze. Why do I need these; especially now when I’m purging my space; I have had the house painted and minimized and here I am resuming old patterns? All of this self-talk is about starting a new life chapter. Actually that statement is not completely honest because, as the expression goes, you can run but you can’t hide. Entrenched issues will bleed into the next chapter unless wounds are dressed and then addressed. So how did I arrive at this place in my ramble when here I thought I was explaining or more or less justifying a trip to Trenton on Friday morning? It was as if the polite lady standing at the counter in front of me wanted to know the same thing. She apparently had already asked me three times if she could be of help while I was travelling in flight mind.

I apologized for ignoring her and inquired as to what happens at 11 a.m. I kept silent the part about what if someone has so far had the audacity to up my bid as if his/her name scrawled in pencil on the line above mine was like crowning a king in a checker game? Come on? Counter lady explained the rules as I pointed to the snare drums and my interest in them.

Next to me was a mild-mannered man with black eyewear, receding hairline and wearing a sky blue winter jacket. He jumped into the conversation. He announced that he, too, shared the same interest as mine. Shit! My inner voice almost said it aloud. The counter lady, ready to become referee said that each of us writing a final bid on a slip of paper without the other seeing was a method of solving issues when they occur. But I’m non-competitive and non-confrontational, inner me spoke again. I then mentioned to my fellow bidder and also to the counter lady that the purchase was not all that important after all and besides, one drum would more than satisfy my puzzling need; turns out that the man next to me was the very Jim whose name was listed above mine competing for item #38. He mentioned that similarly, one snare drum would also suffice for him. And, turns out that we are fellow drummers chasing some obscure remnant of the past; 11 a.m. came and went with no other bidders so Jim and I shook hands and after a brief conversation and squaring up at the cash, we were satisfied owners of vintage snares.

I then mildly suggested that we ready ourselves to march our way out of the store; turns out that these are WW1 military parade drums that had been stored away over time: while the polish had lost its shine, the voices of the drums would not remain silent. The instruments had called to be heard again. The drums had summoned the drummers. Take us up once more! Sound us again and again, and again: For the sake of remembrance.