One of the sections of the Rosh Hashanah service is dedicated to memory. In fact, at one time, Rosh Hashanah was referred to as Yom Hazikaron – the Day of Memory. Exactly what was to be remembered? Or who was to be doing the remembering? On that, there are many opinions. Is it God who is to remember (frankly, I have no idea as to what that even means)? Or is it us, and if us, what are we to be remembering?

Whatever. But bear with me a bit. Because I woke up this morning, remembering.

I remembered that today, September 17, was my Aunt Loraine and Uncle Sam’s wedding anniversary. Distinctly. I told this to their daughter Donna, who told me that I was off by about six months, that their anniversary was March 23. So, okay, we have now received our first lesson about memory. It is not infallible.

One of the reasons I focused on this wedding is that I was there. I was born in November 1942. The wedding was in March (not September) 1945. So I was 2 1/2. But I remember being there. It’s my first distinct memory, I think, and I was obviously younger than I thought I had been.

It was in my grandparents’ living room. Loraine was my mother’s only and younger sister. The living room was not enormous and there were a lot of people there. The ceremony was to take place in front of the fireplace. How could I see it with so many people in the way? I remember scooting through the crowd and finding a place near the front, under the grand piano, a place where only I could fit. What else do I remember? I remember people walking down the aisle. And I remember someone singing a song. I can tell you that the someone was relative named Manny Fisher (he’s on the family chart, but I’d have to go back and see exactly how he fit in – and you don’t care), and that the song was O, Promise Me. Now, I don’t know anything about that song, and I don’t remember really hearing it, do I? I am not sure. But for years I heard people say “remember when Manny Fisher sang O, Promise Me at Loraine’s wedding?”

I also don’t remember exactly who was at the wedding, but I could probably guess. And, not surprisingly, I am now the only survivor.

What else do I remember at such a young age? Franklin Delano Roosevelt died on April 12, 1945. I remember being in the room at my grandparents’ house we called the library (because it had a full wall of bookcases and books), when the radio reported Roosevelt’s death. I remember a flurry of conversation and activity. Did I know who Roosevelt was? I was 2 and 1/2. I assume not. But I knew he was someone important. Did I know what death meant? I can’t even answer that. Do I really remember this correctly at all? I think I do. I have always thought I do. But I guess it could be a false memory, right? Can’t prove it one way or the other.

Finally, my dog Beadie. I don’t know how old I was when Beadie came to live with us. I know he was with us two or three years, and he was “sent to a farm where he’ll be happier” when my sister was born in October 1947. So I assume that Beadie arrived when I was 2, or maybe when I just turned 3. Maybe before FDR died; maybe after. No way to know.

Before Beadie arrived, I had an imaginary friend. Now I think a lot of 2 and 3 year olds have an imaginary friend. But my imaginary friend – with whom I must have spent a lot of time, and whose name was Beadie – was a soldier, and he was away in the war and I talked to him from afar. (Many in my extended family were in the military, so Beadie’s profession was understandable.)

But something about it worried my parents, so they got me a sprightly black cocker spaniel puppy, whose name – talked about coincidences – was Beadie. And, lo and behold, as soon as canine Beadie arrived, soldier Beadie disappeared.

Canine Beadie and I were best buddies. But Beadie was a problem. He liked to bark, or better he liked to yip. And he liked to run away overnight – he did this again and again (how was this even possible?) and then return in the morning. The morning being about 5 a.m. with scratching on the back door. Every time he disappeared, we did not know if he would ever return – but yes, every time he did, and it was always before the sun came up.

Except once. Once, he ran away during a cold winter spell and didn’t return. Or at least he didn’t return on his own. He was brought back by a couple of University City MO police officers who saw him struggling under an ice sheet on the pond at Lewis Park. He apparently went swimming, got frozen over, and was able to breath because there was some air between the ice and the water. He was in quite precarious condition as you might imagine, but he pulled through. (I understand you can question my memory here. This sounds impossible. I remember the police thought it was a miracle. As did my family. But no memory loss on this one.)

And then there was another time that he ran out of the house, across Delmar Boulevard and was hit by a car. Again, he was really hurt – I remember blood seeping out of his eyes when they brought him home. But, again, he lived.

But, my father told me, after my sister was born: “We think Beadie would be happier on a farm where he could run to his heart’s content, so that is where he sent him.” (Not a direct quote) Of course, this was told to me after the fact, but I believed it, and I remember accepting it. I wanted Beadie to be happy. But where did Beadie really go? I have no idea. I prefer not to think about it.

That’s it.

Rosh Hashanah. Day of memory. Yom Ha Zikaron.