Holidays tend to bring to mind certain things and certain memories. The scope of which ranges depending on one's subjective experiences. Memorial Day could bring about a feeling of sadness for a mother or widow who lost a loved one in the Iraq War, or a feeling of pride for the son of a World War II veteran who lived a long and fulfilling life. Christmas is a season of joy for most, filled with memories of childhood wonderment and the traditional gift giving and receiving. For some, it comes coupled with an association with loneliness or depression. Memories filed in the backs of our mind are brought to the forefront each year when the holiday comes around again. Sometimes old photographs offer reminders of things past. Of people past or present, or a particular song, or a movie stuck in time and only relevant once a year.
I think I'd be hard-pressed finding someone who would consider Labor Day one of those days on the calendar that has a certain significance or ignites the memory cannon. A holiday created to recognize the American labor movement, and the contribution of laborers is typically seen as a three-day weekend and the end of summer for the average person. But since Labor Day in 1986, it's meant something different to me. Trivial, maybe. Insignificant in the grand scheme of things? Certainly. But Labor Day always reminds me of Jane, Gordie, Chris, Teddy, and Vern. Jane was real, the other four were not.
Jane Malden had straight, dirty blonde hair parted in the middle and cut to her jawline. Brown eyes, a small Barbie-like nose, and prominent cheeks complimented her slightly crooked, pearly white smile. She was about 5'6" and had a thin, flat-chested, upper body and prominent shoulders. Being a swimmer and tennis player played a part in her athletic physique. On a scale from bland to gorgeous, Jane would fall under the cute category. Hiking and being outdoors was her favorite pastime. Never one to wear make-up or wear anything less comfortable or dressier than jeans and a sweatshirt or oversized sweater, the self-described tomboy could easily and stereotypically be judged as gay. As a college classmate of hers who shared a few psychology classes together and a few friendly tennis matches, I wondered that myself.
"There's just something about her...I don't know what it is." my lacrosse teammate Rob, who had a major crush on her, had said. That she had no interest in this ladies' man both confused and titillated him. She was vivacious and independent, seemingly unphased by outside opinion, and who was interested in dating her. Not like the typical coed who looked and acted the same as the crowd and used weekends as an excuse to get drunk and engage in activities that inevitably came with Monday morning regret. Admittedly, I felt the same way Rob did. But I wasn't going to let him know. I had a relationship with her - platonic, yes - but at least I was in a position to upgrade my status.
To my delight, I eventually learned that no, Jane was not gay. The summer before our senior year, I was lucky enough to have what was then my 20-year-old male needs met. Which at that time for me, was some kissing and fully clothed embracing. We met at a beach in Connecticut, and after a day of sunbathing and swimming, went out to dinner. Our brief interlude was outside her car that evening in the parking lot of the restaurant. That she smiled and blushed with with shyness between the moments of our kissing only made me crush on her more. Eventually we left the parking lot and drove off in separate ways, her in her black Camaro and me in my light blue Pontiac LeMans. Things seemed promising as I drove home in the warm night, happy to have upgraded my relationship with Jane from exchanging volleys on the tennis court to exchanging kisses in a parking lot. I realized however, that the chances of a relationship status getting any more serious was slim to none.
The upcoming fall, Jane was heading to England for a foreign exchange semester. I resigned myself to the fact that we were never going to be a couple because of that. But maybe the girl with the simple name would be able to accommodate the guy with the simple name and simple romantic needs.
It was Labor Day weekend when I took the 60 mile drive to her home in Willimantic to see her. I stayed in her mom's guestroom Saturday night, and the next day we decided to see a matinee. I suggested a new movie that had just come out, Stand By Me. I think I had heard or read a headline praising the movie, though I had no clue what it was about. The title was also the title of a John Lennon song, which, whether relative or not, was reason enough for me wanting to see it. I didn't realize until after the film, that "Stand By Me" the song, was actually a 1961 song by Ben E. King. Lennon and many others had covered the song since. One other fact I didn't know was that Stand By Me, the movie, was based on a 1982 novella by Stephen King called "The Body". I learned that decades later.
It was only a year ago when I read my first Stephen King book. And it was mostly by accident. No matter how popular and prolific the best-selling author was, his genre of horror fiction wasn't anything I was ever interested in. Nonfiction was my exclusive reading content. Be it sports, politics, history, philosophy, or biographies, if it wasn't true, I wasn't interested. On this particular day, I Googled "best memoirs", and King's On Writing was among those listed. The summary said it was part autobiography and part a tutorial on how to write well. After reading it, I became an instant fan. Underlining lines or paragraphs in books is common for me - in case I want to reread or reference something in the future I found enlightening or provocative. I doubt I've underlined any other book more than this one. It prompted me to buy and read his novella, Apt Pupil, a story about a teenager obsessed with Nazism and its horrific acts during the Holocaust. Disturbing and engrossing in detail, King's writing placed me amongst the characters in every scene, watching silently from a few feet away. It reminded me of why I like Bruce Springsteen's songwriting so much. I feel personally involved in the storytelling, either first or third person. To date, the eight novellas and one novel I've read of King's have not dissapointed.
I watched Stand By Me three days ago - on Labor Day. It's a movie layered with personal losses, triumphs, emotional hurt, adolescent humor and innocence. Both the good and bad elements of pre-teen boyhood and finding your way in a world too big and uncontrollable for the adolescent mind. I've probably watched the movie a half dozen times or so over the years. Like any good movie, rewatching often reveals something previously unnoticed or provides a new or different perspective about the film. On this day, one thing stood out. My thoughts about director Rob Reiner's death last December. He and his wife were horrifically murdered by their son. They died from multiple stab wounds. In the film, we learn that the adult Chris Chambers dies trying to be a peacemaker - by a knife to the throat. We learn this as his boyhood image walks away, fading before it disappears. I made my own short video 12 years ago using this same fade technique on myself, with this exact scene in mind.
The adult Gordie LaChance says about losing touch with friends over the years: "That's what happens sometimes. Friends come in and out of your life like busboys in a restaurant." Like most of my college friends from yesteryear, Jane became one of those metaphorical busboys almost immediately after graduation. But thanks to Stand By Me, I'll remember her at least once a year, every Labor Day. Along with Gordie, Chris, Teddy, and Vern.
And to quote Chris Chambers speaking to Gordie: You might even write about us guys (me) if you ever get hard up for material."
