Keys and slowly closing doors

By Steve Roush
HCP columnist
 
“There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not for better, some have gone and some remain. All these places have their moments, of lovers and friends I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living. In my life I loved them all.” – “In My Life,” (1965) by John Lennon and Paul McCartney
 
Ladies and gentlemen, of all the Beatles’ songs, that one’s probably my favorite.

On days when the world is cold, like it often is during the wintertime, I often stop and think about the people and things that went before in my life.

There are places I remember that have changed forever. Places I used to frequent, places I dearly enjoyed, where the open doors have closed and locked for various reasons.

When you’re young and you have a key, it’s easy to take the open doors and the people for granted. Of course, you’re not trying to take these people and things for granted, and you didn’t think you were taking them for granted.

But when that door either slowly or abruptly clicks shut and the key no longer works – or is lost, or is simply taken away or stolen – there eventually comes a melancholy day where you come to an epiphany, that moment of sudden, somber revelation and insight, where you realize that you took that key on your keychain for granted. You realize, despite what you previously believed were your best efforts, that you, indeed, took those people and places for granted and foolishly hoped they’d be around forever.

Life is short, and we only get one ride on this merry-go-round, we were told and warned over and over. But we don’t want to believe that certainty, even though we know, deep down, that it is an absolute assurance. Not when it comes to certain people and places.

After all, we love these people, places and things, and we don’t want to face the reality that there will come a day where things will change forever, and not for better.

And, besides, we’re all busy, right? There aren’t enough hours in a day, though “we’re working for the weekend” and often work weekends. We love Fridays and lament Mondays.

We wish away the winter, curse the cold, snow and ice, and before we know it, we’re griping about the blasted heat wave and grousing about having to mow the doggone yard for the 100,000th time. 

We focus on the issues, the deadlines, the dilemmas and the daily grind. All the while, the open door closes little by little. We don’t see it closing, but it most certainly is creeping in this petty pace from day to day.

It doesn’t seem like that long ago, but it probably has been quite a few years back now, where I pulled out my keychain one night after my evening repast and slowly removed a key that had been on that chain seemingly forever.

I held it in my hand for a few moments as I pondered and reflected. I rubbed the once-shiny key and wished that I could employ it and implore it to open that particular door just one more time.

And just one more time, I’d smile and walk in from the cold world and feel the warmth inside.
As fond and bittersweet memories rush over me like a wave on a sunny beach, I place the key in a dresser and slowly push the drawer shut.

Out, out, brief candle…

As for the rest of the keys, I make a faithful promise to use them more often, and say a prayer that they continue to open those doors.

Some have gone and some remain.

Steve Roush is president of the Highland County Historical Society and served as chairman and vice chairman on the HCHS Board of Trustees for two terms, a board member of the Highland District Hospital Foundation, a vice president of an international media company and a columnist and contributing writer for The Highland County Press. He can be reached by email at roush_steve@msn.com.