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My Failures Are What I Remember
What’s the deal? How come I remember my failures with more clarity than I remember my victories. That’s not fair. Am I neurotic?
Example Number One: Marie and I were living in Salt Lake City with our beloved cat Scamper. I was walking home from the University of Utah when I discovered Scamper lying dead in the gutter. She was a pretty calico cat, and she had been run over by a car and pretty much squashed. So I scooped up Scamper’s remains and gave them a small burial by the side of the road, saying a few words over the grave. My wife and I loved that cat.
When I got home, I told my wife Marie what had happened to Scamper. My wife is an emotional sort and cried and cried, and we both slept fitfully that night, thinking of poor Scamper being hit by a car and lying dead and alone in the gutter.
The next morning, we opened the door and there was Scamper mewing on the porch. I had buried someone else’s cat. That was over 50 years ago. It’s lived in my mind ever since.
Example Number Two: I was semi-retired when the local PBS radio station advertised for a jazz DJ. I and a few other hopefuls showed up. After a few tryouts, I got the job. I had an advantage: The manager of the radio station had once been my student in a graduate seminar.
I was going to be in show biz! And it was a payin’ gig. (That’s the way we show biz types talk.). Before I started, I came to the radio station to practice, off air, for a few weeks before my gig started. Man, I was a natural.
Then it came time for me to do my show. The ON AIR light came on and my throat constricted. Actually closed up on me. I could hardly get a word out. What came out sounded like “Ack, ack, ack.” I was supposed to be a smooth-talking jazz DJ and all I could say was “Ack.” I was terribly embarrassed. That was fifty years ago.
I finally got some words out and cued up my first song. I remember what it was: Ella Fitzgerald’s “Take the ‘A’ Train.”
I went on to become a reasonably competent late-night DJ. I tried to project a sort of cool jazz persona, with a low and confident vibe in my voice. I was nothing to write home about (the guy I replaced was much better), but I did all right after that dreadful beginning. I even had some fans, though one guy called in and told me that I was trying too hard to be cool. He was right. I was never any good at being cool.
Example Number Three: In 1959 I was in Germany, away from home for the first time. One day, feeling a little homesick, I came up with the idea of preparing an audio tape of my voice, telling my mom and dad what was going on with my Army life. I even taped a few of my Army buddies speaking into the tape. So I sent it off. Later, my sister said that she, my parents, and my aunt and uncle had gathered around the tape machine to listen to my thoughts. All went well. Until my voice ended. I had forgotten to turn off the tape while I was recording
I don’t know if you know it, but Army guys, back in the day, lapsed into a kind of Army speak after they’ve been in for awhile. Army speak is language that uses the “fork” word as an adjective in most utterances. Thus, “That forken sergeant forks up every time he forken talks.” Or “Please pass the forken sausage.” Or “I think I’ll go for a forken walk.”
As my folks had finished my part in the tape, a string of “awful language” (my sister’s words) blistered the living room with ”forks” and worse. After we had thought the tape had ended, me and my Army buddies, sitting around the barracks, lapsed into Army speak. My sister rushed to turn off the tape, but she didn’t know the controls well, so the obscenities continued for a bit. It probably didn’t bother my dad. He worked as a roughneck on oil rigs. But I know that my aunt and my mom (who worked hard to elevate my dad and me from our Oklahoma roots) must have been appalled. My mom never mentioned the episode. I’m glad she didn’t. I cringe when I think of that group suddenly listening to Army speak, my voice included. Her son, my mom must have thought, had devolved to the family’s crude Okie ways.
So I’ve got all these little failures buzzing around in my mind. I don’t particularly care for them being there, but there they are. The first one isn’t so bad. I’ve told the cat story a number of times for the laughs. The second two I’ve largely kept secret until now. You guys exist in the ether and can’t show your condescension with a facial expression. I don’t think emojis with their tongues stuck out really do the job.
Hemingway once wrote that courage is grace under pressure. I’m game for almost anything, but I sometimes leave my grace behind.
I’ve had some victories in my life, but it’s the failures that I remember most vividly. What about you? Have you forgotten your failures? You have had embarrassing failures, haven’t you?
Published in General
Maybe we remember our epic fails so there won’t be any epic repeats . . .
Stad, it’s true that I haven’t scooped up any squashed cats since that failure. I let squashed cats lie.
The cat story is kinda funny, provided you’re not the cat. I’m not sure how it constitutes a “failure” on your part.
I don’t think what you mentioned here are failures, at least not in my mind.
And sometimes I think “experience” is a synonym for “failure.” “Success” is the last thing we’ve tried. :-)
But as I have gotten older, my mind goes to all of my failures–and mine, unlike yours, are quite real.
EJ, I scooped up the wrong cat and caused my wife some consternation. I also slept badly that night.
Marci, thanks for your response. At the least, they are embarrassments that, uninvited, will live out their miserable lives in my mind—though not the cat burial story. But I do cringe a bit when I think of the other two.
I’m afraid I haven’t learned anything from any of the three “failures.” They aren’t quite the kind of experiences that one can learn from.
Those were fun stories worthy of retelling, and as “failures” they make a better tale than something closer a success (which usually makes for a more tedious account).
When I saw the title I was thinking more about those flashes of melancholy recollection that seem to intrude on those times we should be most happy and satisfied. I’ve always wondered if this some natural balancing brainwork to avoid the pitfalls of self-satisfaction, or whether this is something unusual about my disposition. Does this fit with your theme?
What exactly would you have done differently? Not bury the cat? Show the cat to your wife first so she could make up her own mind? Bury the cat and not tell your wife? Deny you ever had a cat?
Everything you did, you did in good faith. I’ve lost pets and bawled my eyes out. I’d be overjoyed to have been given a reprieve. And you can still feel bad for that unknown person who lost the kitty that never came back.
Brian, it does. Perhaps you’re similar to me. I tend to overthink things (as my wife tells me), so there is rarely long, unalloyed pleasure in my life. Oh, I have bursts of small pleasures: finishing a really hard crossword, watching my granddaughter Rogue stand on her hands in our living room, going on walks with my wife, and so on.
I’ll have to think about it. I’m still laughing about squashed cats. Ooh, that sounds awful…
EJ, perhaps if I hadn’t been so impetuous, I would have looked more closely at the squashed cat and then gone home to check on Scamper. That’s what a wise and circumspect person would have done. I’ve never been that kind of person.
Arahat, I remember those acks. They must have been buried in my mind and came up when I was looking for a sound of a constricted throat. Funny movie.
Failures, like physical ailments, seem to pile on with age. Not only do we recall the kinds of incidents Kent tells of here, but a lot of chickens can come home to roost. I take shelter as I am able in a poor memory, and fortunately that refuge seems to be more and more available.
@kentforrester: Agree with those who say you are being too hard on yourself. If the “failures’ you have sited are your worst regrets, I envy you.
I don’t care to talk about my major failures, but there was a minor failure that was really funny: in my early twenties, I was living in Hawaii. Was walking home from work one night wearing a thin white shirt, with a lacy white bra underneath. It started raining- a torrential downpour, and I was totally drenched, and rendered basically naked: I had to walk through Waikiki, where there were mobs of people on the street. I held my shirt as far away from my body as possible, but it didn’t really work: everybody was pointing at me and laughing. I was laughing too, but wow it was embarrassing, and I wasn’t even that modest: a more modest woman might have died on the spot. :)
What Stad is referring to, of course, is a Fundamental Truth. We learn from our mistakes. If we are successful, then it means we’ve failed, a lot, and learned from those failures. So we remember them.
Yes, and X10 for moral failures… which I’d love to forget, but do learn from them.
How could you be sure that Scamper did not dig herself out after the burial. They have 9 lives, and they are contrary animals.
Hey I don’t care what your failures are, I voted for Jimmy Carter.
Good to know that I am not the only one with these kinds of memories, although I would characterize mine more as embarrassments.
The earliest one I remember goes to when I was 11 years old, staying for couple weeks with my uncle and his family to get reacquainted with my three cousins, whom I would only see once or twice a year. There was a T-intersection with wide corners near my uncle’s house; the corners were wide to allow for long vehicles to make turns without running into the sidewalks. The bottom of the T was at its widest at the intersection, and the corners were “fenced off” with a chains stretched over small posts to prevent pedestrians from crossing there. A crosswalk was located at the end of the chained part where the street was at its normal width. One early morning I was sent to a store located within a block of my uncle’s house to get fresh rolls for breakfast. I had to cross the the T, and, with hardly any traffic at this early hour, instead of walking to the crosswalk, I decided to jump over the chain and just take the shortest route across the street. Well, my foot got somehow caught in the chain, and I landed flat on the street cushioning the impact with the palms of my both hands. I don’t think there was any one there to notice my fall; never-the-less, I got up quickly as if nothing happened, brushed off the sand from my scraped palms against the sides of my pants, and, nonchalantly, I continued through to redeem myself with a good jump above the chain on the other side of the street… Except I did not redeem myself; my foot, yet again, brushed again the chain, and one more time I landed flat scraping some more my already hurt palms.
This happened several decades ago, but till this day I remember vividly the details of it all. I think that the street in my memory is wider than it really was, but the feeling of stupid, prideful arrogance after the first fall has stayed with me.
I still take shortcuts, but I do avoid jumping above stretched chains… and every now and then I do wonder: why has this particular incident stuck in my mind, as not much else of that visit to my uncle stayed in my memory?
Judithann, I’m sorry I wasn’t there. 😃 Darn, I just figured out how to get a happy face. Just type the word “happy” and a face pops up below.
I think I’ve led a charmed life. I can’t remember any major failures. I have some regrets that I’d rather not talk about. Perhaps that’s what you were thinking of.
Wow! That’s something I wouldn’t admit to on Ricochet. Major fail!
Perhaps you’re right. I went back to check on the grave and it was empty! I often wondered why Scamper was always biting at our skullcaps in the middle of the night. Now I know. She was a member of the living dead pussycats.
Me, too. It’s usually goofy stuff I’ve said to mess up a friendship or otherwise good connection. I have plenty of examples that pop up in my head at unwelcome times.
It’s odd, Ruth, what memories stick, isn’t it? Your pratfall seems a minor thing, but it has stuck with you all those years. I guess it was the second fall that did it.
Ah Sawatdeeka, you’ve just reminded me of the times I’ve put my foot in my mouth. Actually, more times than I can remember, even a few times here on Ricochet. I guess those are called putting my keyboard in my mouth.
I told you. Yours make you look like an amateur comparatively. A dang rookie.
How right you are! This time I recalled the incident I described in #20, because of the questions posed in the first paragraph of the @KentForrester post. Otherwise, this particular memory unlocks itself at unexpected moments, often when I am on a verge of doing something ridiculous or while observing others embarrassing themselves… The latter doesn’t have to be real; an embarrassing scene in a book or movie will do.
If that’s your hit parade of epic fails, I’d say you’re doing pretty good.
Boss, I have led a charmed life. I really can’t remember any epic fails. I did some juvenile delinquent stuff—stealing, a bit of vandalism, etc.—but I was never caught. For some reason, I don’t even regret that part of my life. I waltzed through college and grad school. My teaching career was pretty much uneventful. And I married the right woman (pure luck).
I have regrets. I’m sorry I wasn’t kinder to my parents when I was a kid, for instance.
How about you? What would you consider your epic fail?