Scotch tape memories

Scotch Tape Memories

Yesterday, a thoughtful and engaged writer interviewed me about my forthcoming novel, THREE MUSES. We discussed the titular three: Song, Discipline, and Memory. She asked why I considered Memory the most important.

That’s a big question! For today’s purposes, suffice to say that Memory is integral to all humans. Memory holds an infinite range of emotions from euphoria to grief, from trauma to comfort and consolation.

Yesterday’s interview brought to mind my late father’s scotch tape holder. You might call it my “madeleine.” It’s a ratty gray thing Daddy bought circa 1961, with a sticky black rubber bottom, and sides encrusted with scraps of ancient, peeling, dirty tape.

For me, Daddy’s scotch tape holder recalls the warmth of his study. As hard as he worked, we were always welcome to hang out with him there, sharpen our pencils, or “steal” office supplies.

Daddy’s study was paneled with wood veneer—1960’s style—a desk in front of the window, and a desk chair that was great fun for me, and later for my children, to swivel in. Shelves stuffed with papers, manila folders, and books lined the paneled walls. Daddy had read them all except for the German language Schiller on top—volumes bound in burgundy leather, lettered in luminescent gold—that belonged to my mother’s German father.

When he wasn’t puttering around the house, tinkering in the basement, or working outside, Daddy was in his study. The room accumulated decades of reading, writing, and legal pads filled with his tightly knit scrawl—illegible due to shrapnel embedded in his right wrist from the wound he received as the Battle of the Bulge combusted.

When I visited Daddy in his old age, he was too tired to come downstairs and stand on the back porch smiling and waving. He’d watch from his study and raise a hand in greeting as I parked in the asphalt driveway. He always had on a green sweater. Green was his favorite color. Everyone knew to give him green clothing.

In his very old age, stacks of healthcare and financial statements, bills, fund solicitations that he was too old and too tired and too generous to pitch, migrated to the dusty red sofa against one wall of the study. (The sofa was a castoff from Daddy’s father.)

I came twice a month to visit and bulldoze paper. I’d file a few things in a metal cabinet whose corners had not been true since 1956, and toss the rest, shredding anything with his name on it. Each visit he reminded me to remove the staples and not to overstuff the shredder. Each visit I said, “Got it, Dad.”

Daddy was insanely grateful for my “clearing the decks,” but the process was effortless and truly my pleasure.

Daddy worked in his study until the day before he died at age 93, the scotch tape holder at attention in the paneled right drawer of his desk. I am insanely grateful to be its new owner.

In hopes that you hold myriad treasured memories.

With love,

Martha

P.S. ICYMI, here’s a link to my most recent last newsletter, Why I love dress rehearsals

P.P.S. If you are inclined and willing, the publishing gods find it super helpful if you pre-order THREE MUSES.