Memories for me are tricky. When I think about my early memories I always wonder if I am actually remembering the event or the picture I have of it. I have a big family. I am the much younger sister in a family of 5. My grandmother also lived with us. There are more pictures and 8mm film of me than all the other kids put together—they were all so excited to have a baby in the family. There are pictures of EVERYTHING! The big things—like first steps, learning to ride a bike, first day at school—and the little moments, me coloring, me with my dolls. Add to that the fact that my family is big on story telling. They love the stories of our family and they tell them over and over and over. My poor husband patiently sits through the tale of my weird Uncle Dick getting run over by the ambulance at my Aunt Lois’ funeral every Christmas and laughs every time.
I have come up with a test for my memories. I know that they are actual memories if I can remember the way something smelled or how something felt, not just they way they looked. That way I know it’s real. I have two memories that are vivid, both from when I was about 4. My oldest sister, Kerry joined the Air Force that year and the day she left sticks out in my mind. There is a picture of the whole family standing on the front yard with Kerry, bags in hand. I remember mom crying. And I remember that the neighbor was cutting his grass. To this day I don’t like that smell. Later that summer the family (sans Kerry) rented a cabin in the North woods. There are lots of pictures of all of us from that week, but the memory that I know is real is me on a tire swing. The kids pushed me from behind and the swing swooped over a small ledge at the edge of the lake. I remember the feeling of butterflies in my stomach every time the swing reached its apex and I could look down and see only water.
It’s hard to determine what real memory is and what my mind has filled in from pictures and stories. I think that in the end, your memory is all three. It’s the “pictures” your mind has made together with the stories that go with them. Looking at your family album triggers the stories.
I have come up with a test for my memories. I know that they are actual memories if I can remember the way something smelled or how something felt, not just they way they looked. That way I know it’s real. I have two memories that are vivid, both from when I was about 4. My oldest sister, Kerry joined the Air Force that year and the day she left sticks out in my mind. There is a picture of the whole family standing on the front yard with Kerry, bags in hand. I remember mom crying. And I remember that the neighbor was cutting his grass. To this day I don’t like that smell. Later that summer the family (sans Kerry) rented a cabin in the North woods. There are lots of pictures of all of us from that week, but the memory that I know is real is me on a tire swing. The kids pushed me from behind and the swing swooped over a small ledge at the edge of the lake. I remember the feeling of butterflies in my stomach every time the swing reached its apex and I could look down and see only water.
It’s hard to determine what real memory is and what my mind has filled in from pictures and stories. I think that in the end, your memory is all three. It’s the “pictures” your mind has made together with the stories that go with them. Looking at your family album triggers the stories.
