The rabbit hole of memory (bitter and sweet)

 

Going down the rabbit hole of vintage photos, I found this one, and it has a story behind it. Not long ago I had a friend request, and was amazed to see it was from Derek Pritchard, who dated my sister Pat in the late 1960s. It was nice to see photos of him again, as he looked hale and hearty – but yesterday I read the sad news that he had passed at the age of 86. While I tried to absorb this shock, I found this Christmas photo again – one of those crazy Burton things we did when we were all (unfortunately) very drunk, including 15-year-old me. Left to right, we see my sister Pat, Derek in the white shirt, me crouched on the back of the sofa, and my brother Arthur (who passed in 1980) posing as The Thinker. Walt is face-down on the floor. My fondest feelings are for Derek, who did not last long in my sister’s life. And yet, more than 50 years later, I have such good memories of him and of how kind and gentle he was with me at a time when I badly needed it. Never underestimate your influence on a young person’s life, especially in an environment like this one. The family I have now is an incredible blessing, and there’s no booze at family gatherings because no one is interested. We just don’t need it to have a good time. 

I am sometimes asked, “Where were your parents in all this?” My Dad is the one who took the photo, and my brother Walt (lying on the floor) filled and refilled my glass, usually with stiff gin and tonics. I still remember that Rose's Lime syrup and how I'd taste it the next day when I threw up. The feeling was that it was something of an honor for me (10 or 15 years younger than everyone else) to be able to participate with the grownups like this. Derek was just about the only one of my sister's many boy friends who did NOT hit on me. One of them, 36 years old and married, actually dated me several times in full knowledge of Pat, who blew off my fears of  pregnancy with, "Oh, it doesn't hurt to have a little smooch and a snuggle after a date." He sent me two dozen roses once, and my parents wordlessly set them down on the dining room table. Quite a bit of this was worked into my second novel, Mallory, though I had to tone it down quite a bit to make it believable.