Memories of Dad, 9/11 and Johnny Carson bring tears, smiles

No," my father said, watching as I swept up the end of the family room grime. "Here's how you do it." He rested the broom handle on his shoulder as he knelt, making it easier to push the last of the dust lines into the dustpan. "My dad gave me that hint." I'm sure it was the most casual thing in the world to him, what he said. But his father had died only a few months before, and I felt horrible: I had reminded him of his father. I had brought back the sorrow and the memory of his death. I expressed my guilt to my mother - if only I hadn't blundered, I wouldn't have brought back those memories. Now, every time I sweep up the last of the grunge, I think of that moment, and think of how I beat myself up over accidentally reminding Dad of his father. Now that my mother-in-law is gone, and my parents, I realize what you probably realize: anything can trigger a memory, regardless of how unrelated it might seem to what's going on. There's nothing anyone can do about it. More than that, though, and more than likely, the memory is a welcome one. And more than likely, grief isn't involved. On the contrary: Don and I laugh a lot about our memories of his mother and his uncles. And we do the same about my parents. It's wonderful - joyous and comfortable and connecting. "Look how much we had," is the underlying feeling. I'm sure my mother knew what I know now. I wish she'd tried to explain it to me. But there's lots she didn't explain, and I know why: You just have to get there yourself to understand. I probably wouldn't have believed her anyway. I also wouldn't have believed how often I think about September 11. I think about it every time I see semis parked along I-80 this time of year - and I see them a lot, when the summit is socked in. That morning four years ago, I had followed my routine, which never involves TV or the radio, at least no radio past 6 a.m., when NPR wakes me up. Driving in to work from Meadow Vista, I had an audiobook on the cassette player. I don't remember which one, but I sure remember this: as I approached I-80 on Placer Hills Road, I saw semis crowding the frontage roads, the onramps and the off ramps. Even in September, with no snow anywhere. Hmm, I thought. I understood later: The drivers wanted only to listen, or only to watch, or only to communicate. By 7:30, when I was driving in, the towers had been hit, and the news was so phenomenal, so staggering, that shifting gears took too much energy and attention away from it. So these winter days whenever chain controls go into effect, I'm flooded with melancholy, and a sharp, unwelcome, grisly awareness of world politics. I wonder if anyone else feels the same way. Finally: Monday's news of Johnny Carson's death caught me like almost nothing else could. Usually I move quickly to other sections of the newspaper, but I spent my whole breakfast pouring over everything I found. There was, of course, a lot. Even after so many years off the air, his passing has resulted in a ton of inches, both on the Internet and in the columns. My favorite memories of his genius flooded over me: The famous Ed Ames hatchet bit, where the hatchet hit the man's outline in the crotch. Carson milked that moment, knowing exactly how and for how long. "I didn't even know you were Jewish," he finally grinned, to more laughter - and then, to his and the audience's delight, added, "Welcome to Frontier Bris!" Har. His great reaction to the man who played "Stars and Stripes Forever" by squeezing his palms together. More than the guy's act, it was a major kick to watch Carson be so tickled. His marvelous timing - in particular when a woman "read" his feet. Laughter covered the woman's comment that he'd get married again. He knew the group hadn't heard it, so he pretended he hadn't either, When she repeated herself, he faked a faint. One more: He was very sweet to a 5-year-old boy, talking with him as if they were all alone and doing a magic trick with a quarter. When the boy asked how he could make money disappear, Carson said, "Get married." I'll print your favorite Carson moments, if you want to send them to me. Susan Rushton's column appears in the Auburn Journal on Sundays.