Remember Me
ALAN writes:
One evening many years ago, I was watching the 1942 B-Western Sunset on the Desert. One of its highlights was Roy Rogers’ singing of a song composed by his friend Bob Nolan. It was called “Remember Me.”
One sunny day in 1988, my father took a picture of an old, two-story, red-brick building that was home to a business offering “Vintage Clothing Costume Rental.” The name of the business appeared on a blue awning: Remember Me.
Indeed. How could I ever forget? How many times have I sat here remembering the days and nights I spent with my father in that old neighborhood of south St. Louis, so much of which has since been willfully destroyed?
Cold and windy winter days in 1969-’70 when he and I stood waiting for a bus outside a corner drug store; winter nights when he and I sat there in the warmth of his kitchen in his modest apartment; and summer days when a pleasant breeze came in through the open window looking out on the back yard.
There were days when we climbed a steep and narrow flight of wooden stairs up to the clean, uncluttered attic to look through one of the few boxes he kept there; and days when we sat on the wooden steps of the back porch, not talking much about anything; casual hours in his life and mine, moments to which I never gave a thought in those years but that now loom in memory as reminders of his unswerving modesty and decency, qualities I took for granted when I was a boy because I had so seldom come in contact with grown-ups who were not that way.
I remember the screen door, the sink in the corner, the radio on the kitchen table, and a picture he kept on a wall showing his brother with his teammates on an amateur baseball team in 1930. I remember the nights we sat there with a glass of orange juice and a plate of chocolate chip cookies.
I remember the black telephone on the wall and always a stack of daily newspapers on a chair. A woman who grew up in that neighborhood in the 1940s told me she remembered seeing my father walking many times along those streets and always with a newspaper in his hand.
Between 2000 and 2012, I went back several times to that old neighborhood. I walked for blocks and blocks along those old familiar streets, pausing here and there to take a picture of some house or building or sign or streetscape that struck my interest because I knew they had been significant to my father.
Most of that neighborhood was demolished in the early 1960s, a work of genius perpetrated by city planners and other do-gooders. As a boy at that time, I could not imagine what that demolition must have meant to the thousands of people who lived there. (more…)

