This past weekend was full of bittersweet memories for me. I traveled up to Manhattan to attend a cocktail party celebrating the dedication of the Bennett A. Murtha Bones Gate Fund, a Dartmouth scholarship that my late father’s fraternity brothers created in his memory after his passing this fall. My mother, sister and I were so moved, not only by the amount of money they had raised in such a short time, but also how many of the brothers had taken time to celebrate my dad’s legacy.
The event was not without its fair share of laughs — several of which were due simply to the humor of being introduced to a string of stately, well-dressed men who still referred to themselves with their fraternity nicknames. These included Gearhead, Rims, Schleprock and T-Bin, which was short for Trash Bin. Equally amusing were the stories about my dad’s college years that these gentlemen shared with my sister and me — stories my dad had told us for years, but with large chunks edited out to maintain a PG rating. I quickly learned that each brother had a distinct memory of my dad that defined him or their relationship.
One man recounted the origin of his impressive record collection, which still received a fair amount of use in our home over the years, and how they used to select albums based on whether the band was having a good time on the front cover. My dad had apparently rigged a shelf that hung from the ceiling to house his record player, so that the needle wouldn’t skip when people were dancing. He will always remember the way my dad frequently lurched forward to body block his turntable from a less than stable party-goer, all for the sake of the sound. Obviously, his concern over the quality of his records hadn’t changed. I remember a few occasions, years ago, when my sister and my energetic dancing to Billy Joel in the family room caused the music to skip. Back then, my dad would simply pick me up and dance with me to a slower song instead.
Another brother commented on my dad’s unique posture while he presided over chapter meetings — rail straight, with his feet turned out at the ankles in a “v” shape like a penguin, holding a beer against his chest. All the other guests at the reception, including my mother, sister and myself, nodded in agreement. In my mind, I see him standing in front of the fireplace on Thanksgiving in the same way, a glass of red wine in hand instead of a can of beer, explaining some nuanced theory of economics to my family.
As I listened to all the brothers share their memories of my father, frequently prefaced with phrases like, “What I’ll always remember about your dad,” or “I always think of Ben as .…” I thought about the ways in which we form emblems of the people in our lives, the specific ways we remember our friends and family. I think of one friend powering-walking down Madison Lane, late for class, but still stopping to give me a hug and ask about my day. Another friend is permanently barreling up Route 80 on our way back to New Jersey, as I ride shotgun in her yellow Mini Cooper. The mere mention of a name has the power to recall these characteristic memories for so many of the people in my life.
Clearly, no relationship can be summed up in one story, but these emblematic anecdotes serve as a window into our experiences of another person. The interactions we have with the people in our lives, however insignificant they may seem at the time, may very well be the things we remember when they are gone. You never know what little idiosyncrasy of yours may be the thing that defines you in someone’s memory.
Listening to these men, who had known my father during a wildly different time in his life, recall memories that so clearly mapped on to my own made me feel connected to him in a way that I haven’t since he passed away. Each story shared captured a part of what made my dad so special to so many people. I miss him terribly, but I find comfort in the fact that he lives on in the hearts and minds of the people who loved him, every time a record skips.
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