On Memory
I’ve come to the conclusion recently that fading memories are like slowly drowning loved ones. At first, there is a strong arm reaching down, a firm hand intertwined tightly with the fingers of the memory as it looks up, hopefully, from just underneath the surface of the water. As time passes, and if the memory is not revisited, its hand starts to slip loose of the grasp. One at a time, the frail fingers pop out, and the hopeful glances from under the surface turn to icy stabs of despair. Eventually, it’s possible that these memories will slip away and seem beyond grasp – sometimes will actually be beyond grasp – sinking ever deeper into the murky abyss of the mind. In my case, that last scenario defines many of my childhood and teenage memories. I remember the major events, or at least most of them, but when thinking back on my past there is often a lack of detail, and innumerous blanks that need filling in. Recently I’ve begun the journey in my mind of doing just that – excavating the details and attempting to revive whatever it is that should be taking the place of all those blanks.
I recently read an essay by E.B White, the author of Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little. In that essay, “Once More to the Lake”, he describes recalling memories in the following way. “It is strange how much you can remember about places like that (speaking of a lake he visited as a child) when you allow your mind to return into the grooves that lead back. You remember one thing, and that suddenly reminds you of another thing.” White’s interpretation is a fairly good representation of what I’ve experienced on my journey to get back the lost pieces. For me, those “grooves” have started with the details I do easily remember of the places and events of my life. Beginning with the familiar details, I’ve been following these grooves as they branch out, inch by inch in some cases, to details and experiences I did not recall previously – to my drowning loved ones – in a desperate attempt to pull them back to the surface.
The house I spent a good portion of my childhood in is one of those places I’ve lost pieces of. Some details of the house, as well as many of the non high impact events that took place in or around it, seem casualties of the broken camera in my mind. I know that these years in particular hold many memories just waiting to be rediscovered. So, just as I’ve done with other places from my past, I’m starting with the details I remember. The street was N. Thistle, the city was Flagstaff Arizona. The house sat in the middle of a low lying neighborhood called Foxglenn. I call it a low lying because the elevation it sat in was much lower than anything around it. Driving in required going down steep roads and driving out required driving back up. Sparsely wooded hills surrounded the area like a moat, but unlike a moat these hills invited people in – begging them to slide in on a snow sled, stay for dinner, or even look into purchasing a home.
This lower elevation made the rainy season frustrating for adults and exciting for children like me – who would jump at the chance to race makeshift paper and cardboard boats down the rushing streets. I loved riding my BMX bike against the current, staring down at my front tire as I rode, watching how it split the oncoming water in a way that gave the illusion I was going twice as fast. My tire was the staff of Moses, my flooded street the Red Sea. Riding like that – through those flooded streets – is a memory I haven’t thought about in over fifteen years, yet it brings me tremendous joy to recall it. Just as EB White suggested, the groove that started with the neighborhood led me to it.
So that’s how it works. This is how I’m getting the missing details of my life back. One quick writing session, eight hundred and fifty words, and I’ve rescued a memory – a drowning loved one. Although it wasn’t leagues under the surface of the water – I didn’t remember the sensation and joy of riding my bike through the flooded streets until intentionally thinking about the details of that neighborhood. By writing the memory down, I’ve guaranteed that it will never again be lost and in need of a strong arm to pull it back to the surface. Later on I’ll continue down that groove, perhaps to the surrounding woods. Not all my memories, you see, are as playful and innocent and as the one I’ve recalled today. Still, I need to remember them all, the good and bad, whether they bring joy or offer nothing more than a chance for understanding and healing. I don’t have a choice in the matter really – no more than the choice I would have to rescue a loved one who was drowning right in front of me.
Do you have fading or lost memories in need of rescue? Drowning loved ones with arms outstretched towards the surface, wondering why you aren’t reaching down to pull them up? If you do, I recommend giving these methods a try. At least for me, riding the grooves and writing down the results has been very beneficial and even exhilarating. If you have other methods of memory rediscovery you’ve tried, or other interesting ways to describe the process, I’d love to hear about it!
I am amazed that a person as young as you is already expreiencing this strange phenomenon–I thought it happened, as it has to me, much later in life!
I take that back–when my sister died I was thirty and suddenly realized that the one person with whom I shared my childhood memories was no longer around to help fill in the details–I had loved to recall things with her and hear her add things that I had not remembered until then! I recognized yet another level of the most profound loss of my life.
Lately I have remembered little incidents from my early childhood in Iowa and wished my mother were still here to confirm the when and where of them. Luckily most of the other players in your life are still with you and can help to do this for you.
I can still remember the sense of triumph with which I rode my first bicycle! That delicious wind in the face as my hair blew back from my forehead, and the terrifying sense of speed as we went down the steepest hill in the neighborhood are still a part of me.
Thanks, Chris, for the invitation to recollect. I hope your father-in-law is still working on his memories for you kids–the early preview I got was pretty impressive.
I heard recently that our brains capture every detail our senses collect. Every detail!
I was told (but have yet to research it), that a new study on the brain revealed when parts of the brain were stimulated, the individual would recall a moment from the past. When retelling the story, the individual could recall incredible details which were not vital to the memory at all: the color of a street sign she passed, the color of a woman’s dress who walked by randomly in the backgroud, etc. Every detail!
So, I’m thinking it’s all there. With that kind of brain power, it’s no wonder we do so much “sub-conciously” – like forgetting the parts that hurt.