Year's end is a time for accounting, both for taxes and for history. What was 1994?
Every year has its big moments, of course, and its Top 10 news stories: War in Bosnia, Republican Landslide, Democracy Returns to Haiti, Baseball Season Cut Short, GATT Agreement Signed.
But looking back in 10 or 20 years will any of those things mark this year in my memory? What will distinguish '94 from '93?
Some years lack definition, like out-of-focus photographs. I know where I lived and what jobs I had and who was President, but little else.
Take 1975, for instance. I was a sophomore in college, Gerald Ford was President, and my grandfather died that winter. I have vague memories of books I read, tests I passed, girls I dated, moguls I skied and strikes I bowled. But other than that, I draw a blank.
I don't remember 1975 as the year Jimmy Hoffa disappeared and Patricia Hearst was captured and the Pittsburh Steelers won the Super Bowl. Nor do I think of it as the year Saigon fell and New York City went broke.
There are other years, like 1968, that reverberate through the ages and call up still-fresh images of assasinations and riots and heart transplants. That was the year I wrote my first story and scored my first touchdown.
Is it just happenstance that some years are more memorable than others? Or is it something written in the stars?
Or maybe it's just a lack of attention. An old-timer who befriended my grandfather once told me the story of how he came West from Nebraska in a horse-drawn wagon. He told me the date and time of his departure and still knew, 60 years after the fact, what dates he crossed the Continental Divide and rolled into Sacramento. There were also the harvest crews he worked on, the mining camps he visited, and the teams of horses he harnessed all across the country. The man could recall in detail his encounters with bears and bandits and itinerant preachers, and he could tell you year by year when the first snowfall was and how much rain they got that summer.
His eyesight worn thin by time and his health failing, the man nevertheless maintained his memory of names and dates to the very end. I was forever impressed that one person could live so much and remember it all.
I think of him at year's end when I'm trying to figure how I've spent the seasons. Is it fair to blame my weaker recall on the hurly-burly of modern existence? What would it take to save these days on the hard drive of my memory?
What was 1994? It was the year I put in that fenceline and planted that windbreak. It was the year our baby grew into a little boy. It was a year of hot summer drought and early winter. It was a good year for potatoes and a poor one for our apple tree. It was a year of auctions and barn dances and dental appointments. And, yes, it was the year we lost baseball.