Try To Remember
Jul. 3rd, 2022 03:20 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Try to remember when life was so tender
That no one wept except the willow
Try to remember the kind of September
When love was an ember about to billow
Try to remember and if you remember
Then follow.
Deep in December, it’s nice to remember
Although you know the snow will follow
Deep in December, it’s nice to remember
The fire of September that made us mellow
Deep in December, our hearts should remember
And follow, follow, follow.
(Try to Remember: Tom Jones and Schmidt Harvey – 1960)
Last June, I drove into the Hollywood Forever Cemetery for the first time in my life. It struck me as odd that having lived in Los Angeles all my life, and frequented Hollywood so often, I never visited this historic resting place of famous movie stars and celebrities. But on this day, I wasn’t at all curious or interested in the elaborate graves and aging headstones that lined this leafy and shaded “campo santo” (holy ground). I was there to remember and pay tribute to Nancy Eileen Walsh, an extraordinary woman I met and esteemed in my youth – but only learned of her later life and her accomplishments from the memorial reminisces described by her two daughters, Jennifer and Melissa, at the service.
The tricky thing about memory is its haziness and unreliability as we get older, and further and further from the times and details we are trying to recall. I remember Nancy Walsh in a kaleidoscope of sporadic and intermittent vignettes and scenes that only cover the early years of her marriage with my Uncle Charlie and their two daughters.
I met Nancy in 1965, when she was a young, vivacious coed in her senior year at Cal State L.A. My Uncle Charlie had brought her to meet the large Delgado family, with all his 12 brothers and sisters, at the traditional Sunday dinners hosted by my grandparents at their Lincoln Heights home. I was seventeen at that time; a junior in high school; and very full of myself as a varsity soccer player, a scholar, and a budding intellectual. I felt free, independent, and on the cusp of a beckoning college career. Up until then, Charlie had been my sole guide to a vision of what collegiate life held in store – but he didn’t seem drawn to the artistic and intellectual influences which I imagined abounded there. However, Nancy Walsh, his girlfriend and soon to become fiancée, relished them. After my first introduction to her, and the opportunity to talk to her about college, her classes, and her interests, I was entranced.
Nancy was a charming, funny, intelligent, and attractive young woman in 1965. I immediately developed a crush on her and delighted when I could engage her in conversations. Rather than dismissing my intellectual pretensions, and my attempts at sophisticated dialogue, she listened and encouraged my budding interests in art, poetry, literature, and college life. Plus, she provided new and alluring perspectives. I learned that she attended Immaculate Heart High School and had taken art classes with Sister Corita. She introduced me to the thought-provoking beauty of serigraph art and the poetry of E.E. Cummings, which permeated so much of Corita’s artworks. She expanded my understanding of the modern American authors I was just beginning to learn about and read: John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemmingway, Joseph Heller, and J.D. Salinger. I loved being around her, and so I was delighted to learn that she and Charlie had decided to marry after their Spring graduation, and were then planning on joining the Peace Corp. I could not imagine a more romantic and heroic future for them – and one I envied.
The Summer of ’65 will always stand out as one of the most exciting times of my life. Charlie had asked me to be a member of his wedding party, so I was able to participate in all the anticipation, preparations, and parties that went along with a wedding. Charlie and Nancy invited me to all the beach parties, pool parties, and the shopping expeditions that preceded the actual ceremony. I glowed with pride as I accompanied Charlie with his three college buddies to be measured for our wedding day tuxedos, and I was adolescently flattered when Nancy would include me in her shopping forays. It was on one of these excursions that Nancy introduced me to the Pickwick Bookstore on Hollywood Blvd. Since she lived in the nearby Los Feliz area, she was very familiar with all the theatres, shops, and department stores that in those days still dotted Hollywood Blvd. Until Nancy walked me into Pickwick Bookstore, I had only frequented public libraries and used bookstores, trying to maximize the few dollars I had to spend. On this occasion, however, Nancy handed me a 5-dollar bill and encouraged me to look around. I spent what seemed hours selecting paperback novels and books of poetry, eliminating some, choosing more, and then finalizing my ultimate purchases. The one book I still remember to this day was Nancy’s recommendation – Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger.
From my young and naïve perspective, I felt that Nancy was a surprising novelty to my conservative Mexican-American family of aunts and uncles. I doubt they had ever had contact with such a brash and confident young college woman who was not afraid to speak and defend her liberal opinions about politics, religion, and the rising tide of feminism. Nor did Nancy suffer fools gladly – so there might have been an element of friction between some individuals. Whenever I was present at these discussions (arguments?), I secretly took Nancy’s side (since I wasn’t considered old enough to participate.
The parties, get-togethers, and pre-nuptial excitement ended after the ceremony and reception at St. Ambrose Catholic Church. I began my senior year of high school in September of 1965, and it was simply a matter of time before Nancy and Charlie left for Albuquerque, New Mexico, to begin their Peace Corp training. My last escapade during that marvelous time was defying my parents’ prohibition against seeing them off at the airport. On the morning of their departure for LAX, I resolutely dropped my brother and sister off at school and drove to the airport on my own. There, I said an envious goodbye to the glowing newlywed couple and wished them well on their grand adventure (although I also took the precaution of asking Charlie to write a parental excuse letter so I could return to school without penalty). My summer of novelty and excitement was over, my mentor-uncle and his bride were gone, and I was left to continue with my burgeoning life as a senior in high school.
I suppose a wiser man might have suspected an element of doomed foreshadowing when I learned that their Peace Corp adventure came to a disappointing end. A training injury disqualified Charlie as a candidate, thereby eliminating their combined participation in President Kennedy’s stellar New Frontier program. Nancy and Charlie returned to Los Angeles and began a more mundane life as a married couple, and soon two daughters followed. I went off to college at UCLA, and only occasionally saw Charlie and Nancy at large family functions at my grandparents’ home. Our tenuous connection became even more stretched when I learned of the disillusionment of their marriage and subsequent divorce. Over time I would only occasionally see and talk with Nancy at some Delgado family events, but mostly at funerals, as more and more of my uncles and aunts passed away. Nancy stayed faithful to the connection she and her daughters had with these Delgado families, and she always showed up.
Every funeral I have attended has presented me with the same question: why am I here? The answers vary to every situation. Sometimes it’s from a sense of love, duty, or obligation to the deceased, or the son, daughter, or relative of the deceased. Often, however, there is only an unexplained imperative to be there, and the answer will not materialize until I’m present. Such was the case with Nancy. News of her sudden death and memorial service came as a shock. I knew only that I had to attend. It wasn’t until I was present – sitting in the memorial chapel of the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, listening to her two daughters describe the life and laughter of this hardworking, fun-loving, successful, single mother of two girls – that the answer came. I needed someone to help me remember, and to fill in the gaps in the story of this young woman I met in 1965, and her untimely death in 2021. Nancy had a full and happy life, and her daughters told her story well. I am fortunate to have known and appreciated her. Rest in Peace, Nancy.
That no one wept except the willow
Try to remember the kind of September
When love was an ember about to billow
Try to remember and if you remember
Then follow.
Deep in December, it’s nice to remember
Although you know the snow will follow
Deep in December, it’s nice to remember
The fire of September that made us mellow
Deep in December, our hearts should remember
And follow, follow, follow.
(Try to Remember: Tom Jones and Schmidt Harvey – 1960)
Last June, I drove into the Hollywood Forever Cemetery for the first time in my life. It struck me as odd that having lived in Los Angeles all my life, and frequented Hollywood so often, I never visited this historic resting place of famous movie stars and celebrities. But on this day, I wasn’t at all curious or interested in the elaborate graves and aging headstones that lined this leafy and shaded “campo santo” (holy ground). I was there to remember and pay tribute to Nancy Eileen Walsh, an extraordinary woman I met and esteemed in my youth – but only learned of her later life and her accomplishments from the memorial reminisces described by her two daughters, Jennifer and Melissa, at the service.
The tricky thing about memory is its haziness and unreliability as we get older, and further and further from the times and details we are trying to recall. I remember Nancy Walsh in a kaleidoscope of sporadic and intermittent vignettes and scenes that only cover the early years of her marriage with my Uncle Charlie and their two daughters.
I met Nancy in 1965, when she was a young, vivacious coed in her senior year at Cal State L.A. My Uncle Charlie had brought her to meet the large Delgado family, with all his 12 brothers and sisters, at the traditional Sunday dinners hosted by my grandparents at their Lincoln Heights home. I was seventeen at that time; a junior in high school; and very full of myself as a varsity soccer player, a scholar, and a budding intellectual. I felt free, independent, and on the cusp of a beckoning college career. Up until then, Charlie had been my sole guide to a vision of what collegiate life held in store – but he didn’t seem drawn to the artistic and intellectual influences which I imagined abounded there. However, Nancy Walsh, his girlfriend and soon to become fiancée, relished them. After my first introduction to her, and the opportunity to talk to her about college, her classes, and her interests, I was entranced.
Nancy was a charming, funny, intelligent, and attractive young woman in 1965. I immediately developed a crush on her and delighted when I could engage her in conversations. Rather than dismissing my intellectual pretensions, and my attempts at sophisticated dialogue, she listened and encouraged my budding interests in art, poetry, literature, and college life. Plus, she provided new and alluring perspectives. I learned that she attended Immaculate Heart High School and had taken art classes with Sister Corita. She introduced me to the thought-provoking beauty of serigraph art and the poetry of E.E. Cummings, which permeated so much of Corita’s artworks. She expanded my understanding of the modern American authors I was just beginning to learn about and read: John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemmingway, Joseph Heller, and J.D. Salinger. I loved being around her, and so I was delighted to learn that she and Charlie had decided to marry after their Spring graduation, and were then planning on joining the Peace Corp. I could not imagine a more romantic and heroic future for them – and one I envied.
The Summer of ’65 will always stand out as one of the most exciting times of my life. Charlie had asked me to be a member of his wedding party, so I was able to participate in all the anticipation, preparations, and parties that went along with a wedding. Charlie and Nancy invited me to all the beach parties, pool parties, and the shopping expeditions that preceded the actual ceremony. I glowed with pride as I accompanied Charlie with his three college buddies to be measured for our wedding day tuxedos, and I was adolescently flattered when Nancy would include me in her shopping forays. It was on one of these excursions that Nancy introduced me to the Pickwick Bookstore on Hollywood Blvd. Since she lived in the nearby Los Feliz area, she was very familiar with all the theatres, shops, and department stores that in those days still dotted Hollywood Blvd. Until Nancy walked me into Pickwick Bookstore, I had only frequented public libraries and used bookstores, trying to maximize the few dollars I had to spend. On this occasion, however, Nancy handed me a 5-dollar bill and encouraged me to look around. I spent what seemed hours selecting paperback novels and books of poetry, eliminating some, choosing more, and then finalizing my ultimate purchases. The one book I still remember to this day was Nancy’s recommendation – Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger.
From my young and naïve perspective, I felt that Nancy was a surprising novelty to my conservative Mexican-American family of aunts and uncles. I doubt they had ever had contact with such a brash and confident young college woman who was not afraid to speak and defend her liberal opinions about politics, religion, and the rising tide of feminism. Nor did Nancy suffer fools gladly – so there might have been an element of friction between some individuals. Whenever I was present at these discussions (arguments?), I secretly took Nancy’s side (since I wasn’t considered old enough to participate.
The parties, get-togethers, and pre-nuptial excitement ended after the ceremony and reception at St. Ambrose Catholic Church. I began my senior year of high school in September of 1965, and it was simply a matter of time before Nancy and Charlie left for Albuquerque, New Mexico, to begin their Peace Corp training. My last escapade during that marvelous time was defying my parents’ prohibition against seeing them off at the airport. On the morning of their departure for LAX, I resolutely dropped my brother and sister off at school and drove to the airport on my own. There, I said an envious goodbye to the glowing newlywed couple and wished them well on their grand adventure (although I also took the precaution of asking Charlie to write a parental excuse letter so I could return to school without penalty). My summer of novelty and excitement was over, my mentor-uncle and his bride were gone, and I was left to continue with my burgeoning life as a senior in high school.
I suppose a wiser man might have suspected an element of doomed foreshadowing when I learned that their Peace Corp adventure came to a disappointing end. A training injury disqualified Charlie as a candidate, thereby eliminating their combined participation in President Kennedy’s stellar New Frontier program. Nancy and Charlie returned to Los Angeles and began a more mundane life as a married couple, and soon two daughters followed. I went off to college at UCLA, and only occasionally saw Charlie and Nancy at large family functions at my grandparents’ home. Our tenuous connection became even more stretched when I learned of the disillusionment of their marriage and subsequent divorce. Over time I would only occasionally see and talk with Nancy at some Delgado family events, but mostly at funerals, as more and more of my uncles and aunts passed away. Nancy stayed faithful to the connection she and her daughters had with these Delgado families, and she always showed up.
Every funeral I have attended has presented me with the same question: why am I here? The answers vary to every situation. Sometimes it’s from a sense of love, duty, or obligation to the deceased, or the son, daughter, or relative of the deceased. Often, however, there is only an unexplained imperative to be there, and the answer will not materialize until I’m present. Such was the case with Nancy. News of her sudden death and memorial service came as a shock. I knew only that I had to attend. It wasn’t until I was present – sitting in the memorial chapel of the Hollywood Forever Cemetery, listening to her two daughters describe the life and laughter of this hardworking, fun-loving, successful, single mother of two girls – that the answer came. I needed someone to help me remember, and to fill in the gaps in the story of this young woman I met in 1965, and her untimely death in 2021. Nancy had a full and happy life, and her daughters told her story well. I am fortunate to have known and appreciated her. Rest in Peace, Nancy.
