History in an Onion
While slicing an onion last evening, I was remembering that my son’s favorite food, at age 3, was onions. He was so enamored of these edible bulbs that he composed a song about them. It had a distinct melody, which I can’t easily share in this column (although if you attend the Berryville Farmers’ Market jam on a Saturday morning, I’d be happy to sing it for you) but the words are: Onions and onions and onions and onions. Onions and onions and onions and onions. Onions and onions and onions and onions. Green onions, too.
This song is a legend in our family. But, of course, the only person other than me who was really truly aware of the composer’s thought processes and humor during the creation of this ditty was my husband, who has passed away. And as I was slicing that onion for my nightly salad, it made me sad to think that although the legend lives on, remembrance of the actual event will die with me. (Even the composer doesn’t really remember.) It’s a small thing, relative to the woes of the planet. But last night it felt like a big thing to be the sole keeper of the memory.
My boy created the song spontaneously. To express joy. And that, I suppose, is often the reason we compose songs. Or take photographs. Paint pictures. Write stories or poems. Although sometimes we are expressing sorrow. Or anger. Or confusion.
Whatever the inspiration, we are building monuments to some moment in time. But even if the creation endures, the memories that surround the inspiration will disappear when those who are present in the moment have passed on.
If I were to put a recording of the onion song—along with a copy of this column—in a time capsule, those that eventually sort through the capsule’s contents will be unable to conjure the bliss of a preliterate little boy composing a happy song about his favorite food.
For me, the essence of the song is that instance of joy. As it was, also, for my departed husband. My soulmate and I could share a look (or burst into harmony) while chopping onions, and be transported back to that happy moment, however briefly.
Now, some memories make us cringe—and when we have a partner who can recall the instance from whence that discomfort came, we can find solace. Refuge. A hand to hold until the memory recedes back into the recesses of the mind. Those memories are more difficult now that I am alone. I must talk myself out of succumbing: It’s ancient history. Nobody else remembers. Doesn’t matter. This was easier when my partner remembered them, too. And could assure me I was making a mountain out of a molehill.
Presently the onion song not only reminds me of my son’s joy at the age of three, but of the joy my husband and I could share at the simple act of slicing a Vidalia. Sometimes that reminder makes me smile. Sometimes it makes me cry.
Here’s another memory of which I am now the sole keeper: When I was a little girl, my father read me stories and poems. I remember one from Carl Sandburg: Life is like an onion. You peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.
Revel in the memories you share with your partner. Share them consciously—purposefully—while you can. Should you become the sole keeper of these memories, you’ll be glad you did.