My Memory Serves Me Well

Since I’ve been blogging, friends and family have commented, “You have such a good memory.”  I’ve never really thought about it.  Is my memory any better than anybody else’s?  I don’t know.  I do have memories, good and bad, of attending school, family events, and a multitude of most embarrassing moments that I WISH I could forget.  More memories than others?  Maybe more than some, and less than others.  I do think that the more that I think about, write about, and share my memories, the more things I remember.  My memories jog other people’s memories, they then share with me, and that reminds me of more.

I read recently that memories before the age of seven are unreliable.  I certainly have memories of events that happened before I was seven, but I couldn’t say for sure how reliable they are, or whether those memories are mine alone, or if I’ve turned often told family stories into memories.  (Do I actually remember having chicken pox when I was four, or do I think I remember it because I was told that they itched like crazy and I thought I had a bunch of mosquito bites?)  I do have at least one memory that I am sure is a real memory from our house in Northville.  We moved from that house a couple months after I turned three.

At times, I’m fascinated about how differently MOH and I recall shared experiences.  Sometimes I hear him telling a story about something that happened to ‘us.’  I’m just as interested as the person he is telling the story to, because I am also hearing it for the first time.  This happens the other way around too, so I write it off to shared or, in this case, un-shared interests.  But I admit, as I get older, my recall has slowed down and also becomes less reliable.  Sometimes I KNOW the Jeopardy answer, but I can’t spit it out fast enough.  When I’m in the shower and think of an item to add to the grocery list, how can I possibly forget what it was in the time it takes to step out of the shower, dry off, and walk to the kitchen?  However, I do remember the home phone number of a school friend I have not called since 1981. Very handy indeed.

I’m also interested in the concept of ‘making memories’.  I had a coworker that used to talk about ‘making memories’ with her 3 year old son.  I wasn’t so sure that he was going to remember the fabulous trip to Virginia Beach that she was planning for just the two of them.  Maybe my own experiences made me skeptical.  The things that I hoped my son would remember… sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t.  He definitely remembers things that I wouldn’t have chosen and sometimes wish he would forget.

My son in his 20s:  Remember that time when I was helping you unload the mini-van at Grandma’s house and you pulled the lift gate down before I was out of the way and practically cracked my head open?

Me:  Yes, and I wish we could all forget about it and move on.  Don’t you remember our fun camping trips, or standing in line together for the latest Harry Potter book, or how I used to rub your forehead when you were sick?

My son:  Yeah, I guess.  But, I really remember that time you busted my head in Grandma’s driveway.

What about memory stealers?  I think many of us have had the experience of hearing a friend or acquaintance share a story, or what turns out to be an urban legend, like it was their own.  I tend to write this off as people using poetic license to make their story more entertaining or real.  However, twice I have had the experience where I have heard someone close to me share My memory, or My story like it was their own.  They shared it right there in front of me.  It was very disconcerting.  First because to share it in front of me is pretty bold.  I really think they must have believed it to be their story, their memory.  Secondly, because it made me question my own memory.  Was it my story or theirs?  Am I actually the memory stealer?!

People tell me that I have wonderful memories of my family and childhood and that they enjoy my sharing them.  I appreciate that.  I am thankful for my parents and siblings every single day.  But nobody’s life is perfect.  Even though I share great things, and they are true, that doesn’t mean we didn’t’ have rough times.  We had some whoppers.  I choose to focus on the good times.  And if that’s not really how it actually was – and I do believe it was – please don’t tell me.  That’s how I remember it.