Winding yarn this morning, after reading online reviews of winders and swifters and deciding hanging the hank of wool on the back of the chair will continue to by my winding MO, I wondered why I loved the blue yarn in my hands so much. Maybe the color reminded me of the basic blue pullover sweater I wore pretty consistently in college when the Arizona winter weather allowed it. Wearing that cotton sweater with jeans that weren’t levis and my Frye square-toed boots, riding my red 10-speed named Tony-Ray around the ASU campus happened many days, not particularly on any special ones. I kept a coiled bike lock in my not-Jansport backpack with books and pens, there wasn’t a water bottle like students constantly tote around today.
Why is it there are random, seemingly nothing-moments one can describe in detail as if a particular scene was a life sized photograph that I’ve memorized?
I could travel the three thousand miles back to that campus and point to the sidewalk spot where I had a quick conversation with Randy Ullom next to the music building on that overcast day. I had on that blue sweater, dark blue jeans and boots, and my brown backpack was heavy with the lock inside. But not one thing was important about that moment. I don’t remember the conversation, and by now all the props I’ve mentioned are gone.