My brother, Bill, has a mind (and memory) like a steel
trap. Me: Do you remember Mother and Daddy taking us to
XYZ? Bill: Yeah, I was 9 years, 6 months and 3 days
old. We left home at 2:33 pm and took Valencia
to I St. to Main St.,
waited 15 minutes, 22 seconds at the railroad crossing for the eastbound train
with 146 cars plus caboose to pass, went over the tracks and turned right onto
Whatchamacallit Road, went past the brown house where to elderly man always sat
on his front porch with his bulldog, etc., etc.
Obviously a slight exaggeration, but I am continually amazed at the
detail he remembers. His memory is a
panorama with the ability to zoom in on specific moments. Amazing!
Now my memory is the complete opposite. In most cases the following scenario plays
out. Bill: Remember when the Whosits came for a visit
and Mother made such-and-such and we had fun playing (insert name of game
here)? Me: No. Well, maybe. Vaguely. Perhaps?
However, there are specific memories which are catalogued in
my brain in much more detail. Perhaps I
have a special location in my brain’s memory center in which a few above
average cells reside, taking naps until called upon to provide their data, their
limited number decreasing the accessible stock of childhood memories to several
handfuls. Whereas Bill’s memory is a
panorama, mine more closely resembles a mosaic, bits and pieces which combine
to give a historical overview, but only hold detail within each small piece.
The first house I remember would be the one in which I spent
my pre-school years in Lynwood, California,
for all intents and purposes a “suburb” of Los Angeles. The house was one story, small and square and
I remember it being quite dark inside, probably with drawn drapes to keep out
the California sun and heat.
There was a small, but nice side yard and the requisite cat and dog--though why
my cat-disliking parents ever bought a Siamese cat (which I loved), I’ll
never figure out. And for many, many
years, I thought we had a Collie, only to discover as an adult from old family
pictures that it was a Cocker Spaniel.
Evidently, my pre-school self thought the dog was much larger than the
reality. My most vivid memory is of a
gigantic yellow and black spider (scary) on an even more gigantic web (fascinating)
on the fence in the yard. My second most
vivid memory is of my friend and I trying out her stilts in the living room
(forbidden) and one of them falling and breaking a lamp (terrifying to a 5 year
old).
Sometime around age 5 or 6, we moved to Long
Beach to a nice, one story, larger square house, with
a detached garage covered in Bougainvillea .
This one had a much bigger yard with flower beds around the edges and a
lemon tree. Also, my friend across the
street had a pomegranate tree in her backyard that we would climb and eat
pomegranates to our heart’s content. The
house was in the flight path of LAX and the sound of jets flying low over our
house as they came in for a landing was heard often and very loudly. I’ve wondered if that was the inspiration for
my dad’s hobby of flying model airplanes.
I remember walking to church, school, and piano lessons. I remember my out-of-state grandparents
taking me, my sister (who was born while we lived in Lynwood)
and my mother who was very much in labor to the hospital in our car, a Mercury
with push buttons instead of a gear shift.
It was a jerky ride, but we made it safely there and back home
again. My dad brought my mother and new
baby brother home several days later, much more smoothly, I’m sure. I remember Mother painting the kitchen green
and that she hated it. No particularly
vivid memories there—nothing scary enough I imagine.
Truth be told, what I remember is miniscule compared to what
I’ve forgotten. I don’t remember any
school teachers before the 4th grade. I vaguely remember my Kindergarten classroom,
but no others until 5th grade.
I remember having a crush on a boy named Teddy in the 4th
grade, have no idea who my friends were or their names, (well, except the one
with the pomegranate tree and I don’t remember her name) before 7th grade. Sounds like a definite deficiency. A psychiatrist would probably have a field
day figuring out what I was suppressing.
And yet, because I’ve always preferred to focus on the present and
future, the past is just history with enough memories to give a back story and enough
framework into which my brother’s more vivid memories can fit and fill in some
gaps and enough recollection of the truly important people, especially family,
to make me feel very loved and cared for in my growing up years.
