Dust in the Wind

I was looking at a review of a book by Thomas E. Ricks, CHURCHILL AND ORWELL, The Fight for Freedom. It is a book, I am reminded, of two people who, even today remain well known, famous even.  And then, I began thinking of all the people not so famous. And I thought of my father, now remembered (even if faintly) by me alone.  No one else on earth has even a slim memory or mind-picture of Rudy—Rudolph (NMN) Schmidt, born in 1901, somewhere in New York City. Did he have any school chums back in, say, 1911-1915 who might remember him, when he might arguably have attended some school?  Likely not, since they are long gone, along with Rudy who disappeared from view in the late 1950s.

Think about that for a moment.  Someone was born, lived for a while, married and produced several children, and now has disappeared from all conscious memory, save one aging soul.  And soon, that limited memory fragment will also be gone and that person, once a Rudy, will be as though he never was.

I know that those of the religious persuasion believe that Rudy is lounging on a cloud somewhere, doubtless playing his violin, which he once played while on earth.  And that, those of us who once knew him will be able to chat with him up there, so as to inquire why he was such an asshole while here on earth.   But the rest of us hold no such thoughts, so for us, he has simply disappeared.

I cherish photographs, especially ancient ones, because, in part, they refresh my aging memory bank. When I want to reconsider my Grandma Inglis, who left while I was standing by her side in 1951, I simply find a photograph, and her image is reconstructed, and then my memory bank kicks into action and she is, for the moment, alive again, and memories flow into my active mind.

I am also drawn, however, to this notion that we are all temporary dalliances with nature. We arrive here, we play for a bit, we forge memory bits with other temporary creatures, some human, and then we disappear.  We are as “dust in the wind”, or as Kansas wrote and sang:

“I close my eyes, only for a moment
And the moment's gone
All my dreams pass before my eyes, a curiosity
Dust in the wind
All they are is dust in the wind
Same old song, just a drop of water
In an endless sea
All we do crumbles to the ground
Though we refuse to see
Dust in the wind
All we are is dust in the wind”

As children grow into adults and enter through passageways—graduation, marriage, parenthood—I am drawn to the thought that we need to understand the dust that we are. And that Donald Trump will as soon be dust in the wind as everyone else. He will also leave behind a memory legacy—bits in many memory banks. But none will be happy or positive bits, and I wonder . . . does he know that? Does he care? Is he capable of understanding that he too, is dust in the wind?

So, I need to keep thinking and keep remembering. Remember the good thoughts. And there are many such dustlets. While they are now gone, they forged little happy bits in my head. And that’s a good thing.

And then, someday, I too shall be dust in the wind.