The Song Remembers When

My gym piped in music from speakers in the ceiling for those who didn’t care to wear iPods while working out. Unlike that of other fitness centers I found my gym’s choice of songs pleasant even if sometimes they weren’t conducive to a workout state of mind.

Hugh Prestwood’s poetic “The Song Remembers When“, soulfully rendered by country singer Trisha Yearwood, embodies the essence of a “country song”. It’s a lyrical throwback to a past when, for the writer, times were happier, the sun shone brighter, and songbirds shamed barbershop quartets with their harmony. Certain songs have a very specific meaning to some people. They can recite where they were, what they were doing, and who was in their lives at a specific point in time whenever they hear a particular verse. That’s the power and appeal of music, it’s a vehicle of emotion. If the emotion is strong enough, an entry is made in the journal of our memory.

Then there are those songs that are written long after the fact but whose lyrics are so revealing that it would seem the writer had an embarrassingly intimate knowledge of our lives. I was living in Dallas, Texas, in the early ’90s when I first heard Restless Heart’s “Fast Movin’ Train“. As country songs go I thought the music was good; nothing to make me leave work early to buy the song but definitely an enjoyable listen.

The lyrics were another matter. When I first heard them images came into sharp focus from a time many years past at a place that had defined almost all of my military career. A place of tall pines, hot, sticky summers, and dusty roads of red clay: Fort Benning, Georgia.

The centerpiece of the Army’s Training and Doctrine Command, Fort Benning was a way station where soldiers received a variety of training before moving on to other units in other parts of the world. Among this constant movement and bustle I considered myself to be one of the lucky ones, I was Permanent Party, cadre. I was able to enjoy the beauty of an enclave that gave the illusion of isolation in its desolate backwoods training areas. The pines were tall and their bark was aromatic. If you listened, you could hear them whisper the secrets of time through their quiet rustling. The dirt roads were infrequently traveled and eventually gave way to pavement leading to housing, eateries and bars. This nearly completed the requirements for a young Infantry lieutenant’s comfortable life. The single missing factor would be the objective of alcohol-fueled reconnaissance missions.

The success of these nightly missions was ultimately determined by the definition of the objective. In my case the definition was specific, a fact apparently not lost on Restless Heart.

She had a long line of lovers
Mostly the gambling kind;
I didn’t want to be like the others
And get left behind.

The woman with me at one particular command function had a form that turned heads and a face that attracted attention, though not always the flattering kind. I was refreshing our drinks when a fellow lieutenant walked over. He had the faint hint of disgust on his face and in his voice.

“Hey, what are you doing with her?”

“What do you mean?” I asked flatly, feigning ignorance.

“She’s been with everybody. Everyone here’s had her. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“No.” I picked up the drinks and turned to walk away. “She’s with me now.”

To me that final point was key. It meant that an insult thrown at her would splash hard against me as well and I would have none of it.

I heard about her bad reputation
And how she had a heart of stone;
How she’d give a man a moment of pleasure
To get what she wants.

I preferred women like her. I was nowhere close to wanting a serious relationship with one woman and the thought of spending my meager cash buying drinks in what more often than not proved a pathetic game of pursuit and withdrawal was unappealing. I wanted the closeness and I craved the softness but I had no patience for an extended game of chase. Yet, I was not a fan of one-night stands.

When I did come to common ground with a woman she would be the type who understood and was comfortable with a provisional relationship. This was the case now. Regardless of her reputation, however, while she was with me I would ensure that she was treated like a lady. Truthfully, there was no denying that I felt a real affection for her.

I wondered as I lay there and held her
Why can’t this be real;
And why the fear wouldn’t let me tell her
How good she made me feel.
I doubted if she would even be around when the moment comes;
I waited ’til she fell asleep to whisper,
“Baby, look what you’ve done.”

While we gave each other what we needed within the mutually agreed upon boundaries of our relationship, I learned quickly that she had a dark side. Well, “questionable” might be a better description than “dark”. She had a love of weed. She made it clear that no moments of intimacy were possible without Mary Jane’s involvement and she wouldn’t smoke alone.

That’s when I discovered that I had no future as a pothead. I remember trying to make my way upstairs and finding myself face down on the floor with carpet in my teeth. I remember a feeling of helplessness and being out of control. I didn’t like it.

The end of my time with her would mark the end of my experimentation with illegal mind altering chemicals. Still, it would haunt me more than three decades later when a question on a government employment application asked if I’d ever used illegal drugs while in a position of trust and responsibility. I figured that being a commissioned officer with a Secret clearance while smoking marijuana qualified, so I answered “yes”. That answer would permanently disqualify me from employment with certain government agencies. We reap what we sow.

I had a weakness for her kind of woman
I could never deny;
I knew I wouldn’t ever see it coming
‘Til I was lost in her eyes.
But the more I tried to keep her at a distance
The more I became aware,
She was breaking down my resistance
‘Til I no longer cared.

Fort Benning weekends meant lazy days spent sleeping ’til noon, going to the gym, or visiting a bar on post for a few drinks (they served on Sundays). A friend from my Cadet company was in town and the three of us had enjoyed each other’s company over a few glasses. We were leaving the bar single file, she was in front of me as I brought up the rear. Just before we reached the door we passed a table with three male patrons. I had recognized one earlier as a major I had seen around post, though we were all now in civilian clothes. The major laughed as we passed and though he tried to keep his voice low I clearly heard, “Yeah, you hold her down and I’ll sit on her face.”

By his tone and body language I knew the intended object of his derision. I saw her shoulders stiffen slightly; she’d heard.

I squinted hard against the bright Georgia sun as my friend and I walked her to her car. I closed her door and she rolled down her window.

“I’ll see you in a bit”, I said.

She gave me a stern look.

“What are you going to do?”

“Nothing”, I said. “I just need to check on something.”

She looked at me for a moment, her mouth partially open. Then she put the car in gear and I watched until she’d cleared the parking lot.

My friend and I turned and walked back to the bar without speaking. I felt slight tremors in my fingers and I knew that the flow of adrenaline had begun. I seemed to recall something in one of my West Point law classes regarding an individual’s rank: if rank weren’t readily discernible, that fact was a defense against insubordination and certain other violations. No matter. Right or wrong, the wheels had begun to turn and there was no stopping them now.

We paused for a minute inside the bar’s outer door to let our eyes adjust to the dim light. I could no longer see the major at the table. The two others were still there. My friend stood by the inner door as I moved forward.

“Where’s your buddy?” I asked. One of them indicated the bar.

I walked over and leaned against the bar, facing the major, just out of arm’s reach.

“I want to talk to you. Why don’t you step outside with me for a second.”

He looked at me for a beat, then turned his head and stared straight ahead.

“No.”

I felt the air leave my lungs. I had been angry, now I was angry and disgusted. Disgusted that a field grade officer would make a remark such as he’d made within earshot of a woman. Disgusted that he wasn’t man enough to either back his words or apologize. Disgusted because, well, this was the Home of the United States Army Infantry, the most powerful and feared fighting force in the world, yet it was crawling with spineless officers like this one and he was no different than what I’d experienced within my own chain of command.

So I berated him. I called him everything from chickenshit coward to spineless bastard. I upbraided him in a voice loud enough to reach every corner of the bar. I insulted his manhood.

Still nothing. Not from him, not from his friends.

Finally, partially in frustration but mostly in disgust, I laughed at him. Then I turned and walked out of the bar.

The “Real Army” had been a letdown since I’d left West Point. Where standards were once high, now acceptable was good enough. At the Academy integrity was sacrosanct and a man’s word was a bond of steel, here creative avoidance was celebrated. After what I’d seen and experienced up until then I thought I couldn’t be more disgusted. Today had proved me wrong.

We leaned against my car for a while as I felt my breathing slow and deepen. My friend looked at me and smiled.

“That was interesting!” He paused. “Let’s hope you don’t run into him in uniform.”

I looked at him. Then I looked back at the bar.

“Hell, I don’t care anymore.” As I said it, I realized how much I meant it.

After another minute he started toward his own car. He looked over his shoulder.

“Dinner tonight?”

“Yeah. O-club. I’ll call you.”

“Roger.”

I got into my car and started the engine. No one else had exited the bar. There were only a few cars in the parking lot. I was alone.

I put the car in gear and drove away.

Tonight I saw the red, red rose and the yellow moon
Shining on the silhouette lying in the shadows of my bedroom;
I knew it when we made love and I couldn’t quit calling her name,
That I’d been hit by another fast movin’ train;
I’d been hit by another fast movin’ train.

---

This all happened a long time ago. The passing of the years tends to have a soothing effect and the mind, in self preservation, will bury painful memories in favor of those that make us smile. Eventually, even they begin to blur.

That is, until the song remembers when.

With an additional nod of gratitude to Restless Heart.

—
Dempsey 🌵