On Memory; plus Homecoming and the View from Under the Bus
Hi. IÕm Pete Brown, and I remember things. 
And sometimes I organize these things into stories. And sometimes these stories are thought to be pretty 
good. 
In this season of my podcast, IÕm going to share ten stories that I think are pretty good between now and 
the end of 2017. This is episode zero?Ņ?the one you put up just to make sure everything is working right 
with getting the podcast into Apple podcasts, google play and where they need to go. IÕm also using it as an 
opportunity to tell you a bit about me, about how my memory works and why I think podcasts are the exact 
right medium for these stories. And IÕm going to wrap this episode up with a quick bonus story thatÕll give 
you a flavor of whatÕs to come.
I should mention that I have a pretty good, albeit random, memory. I remember some things in great detail. 
Do you know how you probably remember exactly where you were when you heard about the attacks on 
Sept. 11, 2001? Or for some of you, the Challenger explosion. President Reagan being shot. JFKÕs 
assasination? Hearing the news that someone you love has passed away. 
My memory can be a lot like this, only I remember things that are not necessarily tied to major dramatic 
events. They might be specific classes I took 30 years ago in grade school. Conversations I overheard on 
the school bus. Oftentimes when I run into someone I havenÕt seen for a few years, I can pick up our 
conversation right where we left it. And I have to admit, this seems to freak people out a little bit. HereÕs 
what a few of my friends had to say when I asked them about their experience of my memory:

When we remember things like where we were when we learned about the attacks on 9/11, itÕs called a 
flashbulb memory. It often includes lots of sensory details surrounding those moments?Ņ?the feel of the 
wind, the quality of the light, the bend of a branch, a certain smell. 
The psychologists who coined the term theorize that because there is so much emotion overwhelming us at 
these times that our memory is recording everything in detail so that we might parse through the emotions 
later and make some sense of it. And this theory makes sense to me because I have a lot of trouble reading 
emotion on people, or recognizing deeply emotional moments that I find myself in. And it could be that my 
memory is recording this stuff so that I might sort through it later and make some sense of it. 
This podcast is that sorting. 
And honestly, I can not control what my memory is going to remember in this detail. I can rattle of the 
batting averages of the 1977 Cleveland Indians, tell you every phone number IÕve ever had in my life, or 
bring up a conversation we might have had at your locker, between classes, 30 years ago, about the rock 
band Poison and how you said you could smell their make-up when they took the stage at the Agora. But I 
canÕt tell you what day is garbage day in the township IÕve lived in for 15 years, or what time IÕm supposed 
to pick my son up after marching band, or if I paid the gas bill, or even if I put the gas bill on autopay. If 
my memory is my superpower, itÕs one thatÕs uncontrolled and bent towards the trivial. Sometimes itÕs a 
curse, knowing, for example, what was on the cover of my neighborÕs People magazine that was 
mistakenly delivered to my house in 2003 (My Baby Saved My Life. No Billy Bob. No craziness. And for 
the past year, no sex. Why? Angelina Jolie says all that matters now is son Mattox, age 2). Still I have to 
work pretty hard to remember the name of that red headed kid my daughterÕs been besties with for three 
years. Or the other one thatÕs always laughing. In my mind, my sonÕs friends are mostly blobs of hair that 
sometimes speak to ask for junk food. 
It is worth noting that flashbulb memories arenÕt necessarily more accurate than our standard 
autobiographical ones. We think they are, but theyÕre subject to the same vulnerabilities as regular 
memories. Over time, our brains futz with our memories, all of them. Which is why I say this show is 
written to the best of my memory, for whatever thatÕs worth at any given time. If you are someone who was 
in or around these stories and remembers things differently, I donÕt doubt your recollection. In fact, IÕd be 
fascinated to know if anyone else in their late forties still finds themselves thinking through stuff that 
happened on the grade school playground, on a regular basis, walking the line between amusement and 
torment.
I can only promise you that I am being as honest and forthright as I can in remembering these stories and 
sharing them with you.
There are ten episodes planned for this season, although I wouldnÕt rule out a bonus 11th once things start 
rolling. Categorically, these stories are works of creative nonfiction audio, of memoir steeped in nostalgia.
 I am 46 years-old, and have been writing professionally for more than half of my life. Yet these are stories 
that IÕve never snuck into a screenplay, short story, novel, newspaper column, VO script, radio spot, video 
game, blog post, online course or technical manual, all of which are things I have written over the years. I 
think theyÕre pretty good stories, but theyÕve been held up as I searched for the right medium for them, and 
with this season, IÕm testing my thesis that podcasting is that medium.
 Podcasting is so interesting to me as a format, because in my own life, when I open a new podcast, I am 
choosing to invest more of my attention in something than in almost any other form of media. Certainly it 
helps that my hands are freed up to do the dishes or drive home while I listen, but at the same time, this is a 
format in which shorter does not necessarily equal better, a medium in which the audience still seems 
content to allow the story itself to dictate itÕs pace and unfolding. In our hyper-distracted world, this 
amount of attention is truly a gift.
All right. LetÕs cut to the chase. What are these stories youÕre talking about? Fair question. This, of course, 
is Episode Zero, which in podcasting is often the episode you put out as a bit of a placeholder to test your 
publishing workflow promote your forthcoming show. But I figured, hell, even though itÕs episode zero, 
youÕre here now, so it seems like the least I can do is share a short, fast story that will give you a sense of 
the flavor of the show that will follow.
For a long time I wasnÕt sure what that story should be, until the weather turned here in Central Ohio, and 
the smells of fall blew across my neighborhood, and this story blew up my driveway like a leaf on the 
wind. LetÕs do this.
***

ItÕs the first day of fall in Central Ohio as I write these words. 
This weekend is homecoming at my kidÕs high school. Earlier 
tonight, I drove them to the school and dropped them off for 
the homecoming bonfire and pep rally.
Did your high school have a bonfire during homecoming 
week? ItÕs usually a controlled fire, with the fire department 
standing nearby, and often effigies of the upcoming football 
gameÕs opponent are burned while the crowd cheers and the 
band, as they say, plays on. Sometimes there are speeches 
from coaches, players and students. Cheers from 
cheerleaders. And when its over, everyone goes home with 
their clothes smelling a little bit like smoke.
 
Homecoming in the united States is an odd amalgam of 
traditions. While several colleges and universities lay claim to 
having the first homecoming game, both Trivial Pursuit and 
Jeopardy give the nod to the University of Missouri, whose 
athletic director Chester Brewer invited alumni to Ōcome 
homeĶ to Mizzou for their border war game against the 
University of Kansas in 1911. And the alumni arrived by the 
thousands. Other schools claim to have had homecoming 
games that predate MissouÕs 1911 game, 
including Southwestern University, Baylor and Northern 
Illinois, but it was around the 1911 game that schools began 
to see the value of having a homecoming weekend each year.
And in the 106 years since, you can see how different 
traditions grew up in connection to the weekend. A big dance 
after the game seemed like a no-brainer. And as long as 
youÕre having a dance, might as well pick a king and queen. 
And homecoming royalty, of course, needs a homecoming 
court.
What I really like about homecoming is how it looks both 
forward and backwards in time simultaneously. For the 
students experiencing their traditions for the first time, itÕs a 
full week of fun, punctuated by a football game under the 
bright lights on Friday night and a big dance on Saturday. 
Their eyes shine as their whole future spreads out before 
them, brimming with potential.
And we who come home for these events, we get to remember 
those times in our own lives, to connect, ever so obliquely, 
with our past. With happy memories of crisp fall nights 
smelling of smoke.
IÕve not been able to find out who had the first homecoming 
bonfire, but its easy to imagine how it came to be a part of the 
tradition for many schools. My guess is a group planning a 
pep rally thought it would be cool to do outside, with a big old 
fire to light up the night.
Some colleges today have massive, engineered bonfires, 
including the University of Arizona, Dartmouth and quite 
famously Texas A&M, whose 59 foot tall, 5,000 log bonfire 
structure collapsed as it was being built in 1999, killing 12 
students and injuring 27 more. I was a cub reporter in central 
Texas when this happened, and was sent out to talk to the 
Aggie alumni in the area for their reactions. To a person, they 
all grieved the tragedy, and all said the tradition should go 
on. A specially appointed Texas A&M committee studying the 
collapse came to the same conclusion, and the bonfire 
continues to this day, although?Ņ?as Wikipedia notes?Ņ?many 
schools have discontinued the bonfire tradition for being too 
dangerous.
Our local high school, where my kids go, is just over 12 years 
old now, so thereÕs not a ton of Alumni to come home for this 
weekendÕs game. The bonfire, too, was a well-managed affair, 
and much smaller, my Freshman daughter tells me, than she 
thought it would be. Still?Ņ?effigies burned, speeches were 
made, cheerleaders cheered and the band, including my 16-
year-old son on Baritone, played on.
My high school, in the western suburbs of Cleveland, had a 
mid-sized bonfire on the Thursday of homecoming week 
when I was a student. It was accompanied by a junk car 
smash-up, which was about what it sounds like. A junker was 
procured, the homecoming opponentÕs name was sprayed all 
over it, and for fifty cents, you could take a swing at it with a 
giant sledgehammer. I donÕt know if other schools do this, 
but my assumption was always that we had this activity so 
that our more wound-up students could burn off some of the 
pent-up energy all of these pep rallies created.
Around the bonfire, a trailer bed served as a make shift stage, 
the marching band and the Demonettes surrounded the fire. 
Students came and cheered. Each student organization was 
invited to say a few words. Most weÕre quick and to the point, 
things like ŌThe Key Club wants you to CRUSH THE 
COMETSĶ and then people would cheer and someone from 
Key Club would add something to the fire.
My junior year, I was a sportswriter and photographer for our 
newspaper, the Green and White. I was at the bonfire 
shooting pictures, trying to figure out the tricky lighting the 
event posed before I ran through all 12 shots left on my roll of 
film.
I was surprised when I heard them announce the editor of 
our paper, a senior named Scott. Usually the 
paper covered these kinds of events; rarely did we take part. 
But Scott got up on the trailer bed, took the mic and said ŌI 
want to read you all something from the Green and WhiteÉĶ
I stopped taking pictures, because I suspected what was 
coming. Our football team was struggling that year, and had 
lost a game a few weeks earlier in part because of a missed 
extra point. In writing about the game, I had said something 
to the effect of ŌÉas the crowd in the stands chanted ŌTwo! 
Two! TwoÉour conservative coaching staff chose to go for an 
extra point and overtime, disregarding the momentum that 
the late score had given our squad.Ķ
Now I had friends on the football team, some of whom 
grumbled to me when I first wrote that story, or who couldnÕt 
wrap their minds around a student questioning the coaches. 
But we agreed to disagree on it, and the truth is that now, 30 
years later, I think IÕd probably make the same call that the 
coaches did. But 16-year-old me was far more bold and 
naieve, and the thought of going for anything less than two 
seemed inconceivable.
This was indeed the sentence that Scott read to the crowd. 
The booed. Heartily.
Now those few sentences were certainly not the only things I 
wrote in the paper that got people grumbling at me; in truth, 
they were fairly tame compared to the criticisms I flung once 
I was a senior and an editor. Still, I wondered what Scott was 
getting at by reading these lines to the crowd.
Then he said ŌTonight, IÕm burning all remaining copies of 
this issue of the Green and White,Ķ and added ŌCrush the 
Comets!Ķ
Then he climbed off the trailer and flung about 50 copies of 
the paper towards the fire. I remember that while most of 
them went in, a handful of pages were blown back out of the 
fire. In my mind I can can see the white pages fluttering in 
the night, the yellow glow on ScottÕs face as he saw this 
happen, and then him running about trying to gather up 
these freedom seekers and put them back into the flames. 
The crowd loved this, by the way. Every tiny bit of it.
And thatÕs the story of the very first time I was ever thrown 
under the bus. I didnÕt use that phrase at the time?Ņ?in fact, in 
researching this piece, I learned that many online sources 
indicate that the phrase Ôunder the busÕ wasnÕt in use until the 
early 1990s, a few years after that bonfire occurred. We use it 
all the time now, especially in business and politics. And 
while it ma ybe tempting to say that the phrase means 
blaming someone for doing something wrong, I think itÕs a 
bit more acute than that. ItÕs blaming someone whoÕs 
ostensibly on your side for doing something that reflects 
poorly on you.
Either way, itÕs a crumby thing to do, but IÕm sure we all have, 
or at least have been tempted, to do it in our lives at least 
once. I asked my friend Chip if he could dig up his old Green 
and WhiteÕs from that year so I could be sure to get the 
wording of that sentence straight, but he wasnÕt able to do so 
in time for this episode to air. See? Just like that. Under the 
bus.
In many of the stories IÕll share this season, my memories are 
triggered by something happening in my present. A word or 
phrase overheard, a smell, something seen along the path of 
my life. And as youÕll learn, buses come up a lot in these 
stories. I rode a school bus for almost two hours each day 
from first grade until eighth, and the school bus, as you may 
know, is where all sorts of growing up fast has to occur. ItÕs a 
rolling thunderdome, with minimal supervision and no Tina 
Turner; itÕs where you hear about things in the adult world 
that confuse and fascinate you at the same time?Ņ?starting 
with the validity of Santa Claus and moving quickly into 
firecrackers, and where babies actually come from.
And the school bus is where you will learn, for the first time, 
that for better part of your life, youÕre going to be on your 
own. That most standers-by (or sitters-by, I should say) will 
simply turn away and pretend not to see whatever beat down 
may be happening in the back two rows. ItÕs every man for 
himself.
So, even if I had had the phrase Ōthrown under the busĶ to 
describe the feeling I had walking home from the bonfire that 
night, it still would have felt far more survivable and 
preferable to being on the bus itself. And I learned, at age 16, 
and in the years to follow, that you donÕt go into the business 
of writing to please people. You do it to chase down a truth. 
To argue your beliefs. To pose and deepen important 
questions, often uncomfortable questions. And you do it 
because honestly, at the end of the day, thereÕs no way you 
can simply not do it. As if it has chosen you, and not the other 
way around.
And thatÕs why these 10 stories in this season of the 
PeteBrownSays podcast are here. They wonÕt let me rest until 
they are told, which I have endeavored to do in the best way I 
can.
You are welcome, if you are so moved, to print them out and 
take them to the nearest bonfire. I do not mind being thrown 
under the bus. I have, as they say, been there before.
Good times, everybody. Good times.