Only a Memory

Only a Memory by Jim Brosnan

  I decided to check one item off my bucket list—climbing the Rockies. I decided to take advantage of some free time after devoting over sixty hours a week working on a grant project. It was a recent award for which I had received state funding. The week of hiking had been seasonably warm. Near the summit I began to feel the need for a jacket even though it was mid-June. On the last morning I learned first-hand what a snowfield was by dropping knee-deep into a crevice. From a distance, the landscape looked like flat rocks covered with a thin coating of snow. After that mishap, I carefully hiked over any snow-covered areas.         

  My vacation in the Rockies was awe-inspiring. I photographed elk, moose, and deer as well as posted avalanche areas and the headwaters of the Colorado. I watched melting mountainside snow trickle down granite cliffs to the tributaries of a river which would become a whitewater rafting adventure for thrill-seekers miles downstream. As I hiked along a dirt path strewn with downed tree limbs, I entered a clearing—a Monet painting. Upon closer inspection, I realized this mountainside oasis was only a field dotted with dandelions.

  After this weeklong reprieve in the mountains, I was now headed eastbound on a clear June morning. A pomegranate sunrise painted the Nebraska / Iowa state line in the first hour of my drive. I wanted to cover as many miles as possible on the second day of my return trip. I started before sunrise on I-80, two hours before the hotel’s continental breakfast. I would catch this morning’s meal at one of the truck stop diners a few hours into my journey.

  As I pulled into the Pilot Travel Center, I selected a parking spot in the back row. I needed some exercise after sitting behind the wheel for the last couple of hours. I also wanted to keep my new Tahoe free of dings. The Cozy Café looked like an inviting stop as I parked on the left side of the restaurant. On the other side, Peterbilts and Internationals were belching exhaust into the morning air. I approached the hostess station, the dessert case near the register filled with fancy cakes and an assortment of pies. Within seconds the hostess appeared.

  Counter or booth? she asked curtly.

  I’d rather sit at a booth. I have some paperwork to complete.

  Maggie will be your waitress, she retorted as she slid the menu across the Formica tabletop.

  I grabbed the menu and within seconds settled on the special—two eggs, bacon and home fries. In record time Maggie came to take my order. I wondered if the hostess really wanted me to sit at the counter and save the booth for a larger party. When I glanced up, I noticed a dark-haired woman hesitating in the doorway before leaving the restaurant. Her slender silhouette was as familiar as her pageboy hairstyle. I had to look twice. From a quick glance, she looked like Jennifer who last I knew still lived in upstate New York, miles from Iowa.

  Jennifer and I collaborated on a project under a grant from the National Endowment of the Arts at Colgate University. We created photographic exhibitions to engage intergenerational audiences in creative writing exercises. Both of us were avid photographers and had teaching experience fostering writing abilities across different age groups. We met several times a week to organize the details of the project. This close collaboration created more than a work relationship. A few months into the project, research time started with dining out and eventually led to intimate meals at her apartment with cursory discussions about project outcomes. Although the arts project had recently been completed, the relationship was becoming more serious. At the end of the next week, I received a job offer. I decided it would be best to discuss the topic after dinner the following evening.

  How would you like to move to Philadelphia?

  I’m not sure you are kidding, but the answer is no.

  Have you considered what a city would offer us?

  Yes, polluted air from buses and taxis, more congestion, and more serious crime.

  I mean the arts—theater, concerts, and museums.

  If that is where you want to go, don’t let me stop you. This is the most insane idea I have heard in a long time. I have lived in this area all my life and do not intend to move.  

  Well, I just received an offer of a tenure-track position as an assistant professor at Drexel.

  Good for you. Count me out.

  So much for commitment. I think I’ll leave before dessert.

  You should. I wouldn’t want to take valuable packing time away from you.

  I placed the linen napkin on the table, picked up my jacket, and left without another word. I was shocked by her response as I left her apartment for the last time.

  I took the job a month later. She indicated she would visit, but that never happened. In an email she wrote that looming deadlines in her latest projects didn’t allow time for travel. I frequently wondered whether Jennifer had found true happiness. I often thought about her, but I was confident the concern was one-sided. Months later a former colleague called and indicated that Professor Lessing, a research associate, had applied for a grant with Jennifer, and they were working closely on that project. I was left to draw my own conclusions.

  As the ballad, Need You Now by Lady Antebellum, boomed on the diner jukebox, Maggie returned with a fresh pot of coffee.

  Can I top your cup?

  My affirmative response elicited a brief conversation.

  Where are you heading?

  I’m due in Columbus in a couple of days.

  If I may ask, what do you do in Columbus?

  I’m only there for a regional conference. I’m an educational researcher.

  I went to Ohio State for a year. That same year a neighbor of mine was majoring in ed research. But when I left, he was too self-absorbed for me to continue the friendship. Frank Lessing was “a piece of work”.

  I think I also know people like that.

  Well, enjoy your conference.

  As I prepared to continue my trip, I paused to think about Jennifer for a moment. It was obvious she suffered the same unlucky fate as Daisy Buchanan. It was time to resume my trip on the interstate. If I could cover another five hours of driving today, I could get a hotel room for the night and make it to Columbus by noon tomorrow.

  Thirty-three miles down the interstate, I approached a sea of taillights. In the distance I could see flashing blue lights blocking two lanes. Slowly I inched past a wrecked minivan and pickup. I hoped the remainder of the drive would be uneventful. I was confident that I would still arrive in Columbus on Tuesday. I felt accomplished. I had checked an item off my bucket list.