Recaptured Memories

"It was marvelously quiet under a sky of burning blue. The air smelt of eucalyptus and tomatoes and heliotrope from the garden. I would get up early to work, and about noon walk out to a sand fringed cove named la Garoupe. There I would find the household sunbathing. Gerald would be sweeping the seaweed off the sand under his beach umbrellas. We would swim out through the calm crystal blue water, saltier than salt, to the mouth of the cove and back. Then Gerald would produce cold sherry and Sara would marshal recondite hors d'oevres for blotters. Saturated with salt and sun, some in cars and some walking, the company would troop back to the terrace, overlooking the flowers and vegetables back of the villa, for lunch.

     One of Sara's favorite dishes was poached eggs with Gold Bantam corn cut off the cob and sprinkled with paprika, homegrown tomatoes cooked in olive oil and garlic on the side. Sometimes to this day when I'm eating corn on the cob I recapture the flavor, and the blue flare of the Mediterranean noon, and the taste of vin de Cassis in the briny Mediterranean breeze."

If you are a regular reader of this humble blog then by now you know that John Dos Passos is one of my favorite writers. The above excerpt is from his book Best Times: An Informal Memoir. My soul is deeply touched by his description here, the heart of the man and his experiences laid across the years like masterstrokes of paint on a canvas, massaging my mind. I am moved. Moved.

"Sometimes to this day when I'm eating corn on the cob I recapture the flavor, and the blue flare of the Mediterranean noon, and the taste of vin de Cassis in the briny Mediterranean breeze." 

The blue flare of the Mediterranean noon. Poetry. Transportational poetry. 

I've been to the blue Mediterranean, splashed in her cool waters, bare feet supported by squishy tan sand. A dream come true that did not disappoint. I thought of Dos, and Sara, and Gerald and their friends Hemingway, Picasso, MacLeash, Fitzgerald, Porter, Cummings, the list goes on and on. Gertrude Stein called them the Lost Generation. For the ten years they played in Antibes they were really quite found. In addition to the sun, sand, and sea, they had each other and unconditional, deep, joyous friendship.

We've all had those corn-on-the-cob moments of vivid remembrance when an experience vibrantly. jumps to the forefront of our thoughts, our emotions riding them as if they were happening right then. Sometimes joy, sometimes sadness, sometimes melancholy, often longing. Longing to return to that hour, that day, not forever, just for a visit to say hello, to hug, to taste, feel, hear, see, smell the memory back to life.

Those longings can lead to new adventures. Often they lead to an ache, a deep tear-inducing ache which is the impetus to go again, to set your foot back on the path of the new and unknown, to catch-up with old friends and make some new ones, or to create something - anything - that will add to your collection of enriching memories tucked away and waiting. 

You never know when something will trigger a memory. But something will. And you'll recapture the sensations all over again, splendidly.

The Not So Lost Generation in Antibes, early 20th century

Here I am west of Antibes in the French Mediterranean. Bliss!

Hemingway Himself

This post is for me. For safekeeping.

Years ago I read this snippet from Hemingway in the preface of my son's copy of A Moveable Feast.  Succinct and so Hemingway, it just struck me. Hard. I don't really know why anymore than that the sentence perfectly exhibits Hemingway to me, his style of writing. For some reason I laugh out loud every time I read it. When reading it out loud to my family, I laugh. They laugh. But do they laugh because I laugh, or do they get the same impression as I? Who knows. We do, however, oft repeat, ". . . and the ring was in the garden," when the subject of Papa comes up.

I dislike the book. I dislike the liberties Hemingway takes with people who were good to him, considered him an intimate friend. He was untruthful as well as unkind. A sad way to treat people. He paid for it for they, as forgiving as they were, never thought of him quite the same again.

Here is the passage, my favorite part in italics:

"For reasons sufficient to the writer, many places, people, observations and impressions have been left out of this book. Some were secrets and some were known by everyone and everyone has written about them and will doubtless write more.

There is no mention of the Stage Anastasie where the boxers served as waiters at the tables set out under the trees and the ring was in the garden.  Nor of training with Larry Gains, nor the great twenty-round fights at the Cirque d'Hiver. Nor of such good friends as Charlie Sweeny, Bill Bird and Mike Strater, nor of Andre Masson and Miro. There is no mention of our voyages to the Black Forest or of our one-day explorations of the forests that we loved around Paris.

The five people seated at the table, left to right are: Gerald Murphy
Sara Murphy, Pauline Pfeiffer, Ernest and Hadley Hemingway in
Pamplona, Spain, summer 1926

It would be fine if all these were in this book but we will have to do without them for now. If the reader prefers, this book may be regarded as fiction. But there is always the chance that such a book of fiction may throw some light on what has been written as fact."

Ernest Hemingway, San Francisco de Paula, Cuba 1960

This little personal post shall sit here, for me, just in case I need to get the quote right.

And the ring was in the garden.