Oh my memory it does not lie
Of the beauty of the days gone by
The beauty of the days gone by
It brings a longing to my soul
To contemplate my own true self
And keep me young as I grow old
— Van Morrison

THERE ARE OCCASIONS WHEN THE PHONE RINGS and you just know that it is not going to be good. Your mind races as you hear the news, sadness envelopes you, then the memories come forward — and as the song says: “My memory, it does not lie.”

An individual’s truth may lie not in what was, but what was perceived.

You might recall that winter day at Jenk’s Lake when your sled took you farther than intended, past the markers, toward the center of the lake. If you have never heard the sound of lake ice cracking, it is not unlike the sound of a rattlesnake: You’ve never heard it before, but you know what it is and you know that you are in big trouble.

“Just stay still. Lay on your stomach,” he said. “Crawl slowly to the rope. We will pull you in.”

The memories can flood through your mind. Things you had long forgotten come back in a rush.

* * *

The first time I received “the call” was in 1976. It was my brother: “Denny it’s about Rick. There’s been an accident.”

I knew the end of the story. Rick had told me several times that he knew how he would die. I knew there had been a car accident. I knew Rick was dead.

When you get the call; sometimes you just know.

* * *

Then he told me the story
I’d heard before
‘Bout when he was young
And went off to the war

As memories of those days gone by come to mind, you can almost hear his voice, while you picture the scene: He was at his battle station, just below the flight deck of the USS Boxer, somewhere in the Philippine Sea. The plane overshot the deck, landing in the ocean, flat on its belly. The pilot slid the canopy back, inflated the life raft, dropping it into the water, then slowly lit a cigarette and took a long drag. As the plane began to sink, he stepped out of the cockpit and into the raft.

“Never even got his feet wet” was always the punchline.

* * *

The next time I got the call, the caller ID told me all I needed to know: Travis S.

Travis, the brother of my best friend, never calls me, except to return a call. I had made no calls to Travis: “Dennis, I’m calling about Donnie …”

I didn’t need to hear the rest.

* * *

One weekend we were at Uncle Ben’s farm in Chino. I was 13 years old. Cousin Bruce and I were in the front seat of his ’50 Ford, driving on a rigged-up dirt track on the pasture next to the house. I was at the wheel. I took a turn too wide and the car hit a tree, which in turn hit the house. Luckily, it was a small tree.

The ride home was real quiet; not a word was spoken. As I went to bed that night he came in:

“You know, you’re going to have to pay Bruce for that broken radiator.”

Thirty-five dollars was a lot of money for a 13-year-old paperboy in 1966.

* * *

Triggered memories are a funny thing. Long-forgotten stories come back to you.

He had a way about him, strong and powerful with a temper that came out too often. Yet he had another side, too often hidden, that showed common sense and surprising sensitivity.

He was a Sea Scout Skipper in 1972, always wore a crisp white uniform to the meetings at a church in downtown Long Beach. One day he asked me:

“Where do they have those marijuana petitions?”

“Licorice Pizza, downtown,” I told him. “Why?”

“Well, I want to sign one.”

He later told me the kid behind the counter went white as a ghost when he, in full uniform, demanded, with unintended anger:

“You got one of those marijuana petitions here?”

“Yes,” was the hesitant response.

“Well, if you got it, can I sign it?”

After he signed, the kid, with mouth agape, watched him as he left.

* * *

He started loading trucks when he was 14 for “Farney,” as the family needed the money. It was not easy for his widowed mom to raise five kids during the Depression. The money sure helped, as the oldest boys were already in the Navy, Robert on the USS Colorado and Glen training for the submarine service.

By 15 he was driving trucks during the war, hauling various loads around Los Angeles or later, after his Navy service, in the Bay Area.

He loved to tell the story about the guy on the Indian motorcycle. There was a confrontation, the details of which were lost long ago. As the man on the bike was taking off his gloves, the now adult truck driver walked up and decked him.

The rider knocked the bike over as he fell from the well-directed right cross.

“Hey! Let’s talk about this.”

“Buddy, I was done talking when I got out of the truck,” he said, decking the biker again.

A few weeks later he saw that same bike being ridden by another guy. He approached to ask him about the bike.

“I just bought it from some guy who said he just didn’t want it anymore. Not sure why.”

* * *

He always had a story and his four grandkids gave him a fresh audience some years ago. His two great-grandkids represented his future audience.

At 2:17 a.m. on May 8 the phone rang. It was my brother.

“Denny. Dad has had a stroke …”

The rest did not need to be said.

Can you tell me a story Dad, just one more time? Any one will do.

Dennis Lund is a mechanical engineer who lived in Benicia for more than 20 years.