Memory Lane

I'm doing some unpacking & organizing today--almost 18 months after moving into this house we still have so many boxes to sort through--and came across some boxes of pictures, which is not good because it slows down the unpacking as I pause to look at pictures. :-)

But it got me thinking about how it's been years since I have had any pictures printed--photos are almost all digital now. My two oldest regularly used to look through family photo albums; my youngest has experienced that less, because I don't put pictures in albums anymore. Looking through photo albums leads to telling stories about the people in the pictures and fosters one's ability to remember family events. I'm sorry my youngest hasn't experienced that as much as his siblings. One of my favorite things to do as a kid was to go through the family photo albums. I'm convinced that there are memories I have of my childhood that I have held on to because I had pictures of them.

Then there's the cultural impact of the digitization of photography--20, 50 or 100 years from now, it is much less likely that people will stumble on old boxes of pictures sitting in their grandparents' attics. That's kind of sad.

On the other hand, I guess digital photos are forever, impervious to damage from light or spills and more accessible/less likely to get forgotten in a box somewhere. And they're probably more likely to be tagged with dates and names and places, so I guess that's a good thing. I have so many photos from my parents that have no names or dates, and I have no idea who the people are. Even among my own photos, I sometimes have trouble remembering exactly when the picture was taken or who all the people in the photo are.

As usual, change and progress are a mixed bag, with good points and bad. Photos are so much easier to take and share and preserve these days, but if, like my 15-year-old, you don't have a smartphone and aren't on social media, you may not see many pictures at all, including of your own family.

(Photo by Roman Kraft on Unsplash)

Maybe this is why there's a plastic pirate in my suitcase.

It's one of the little pieces of the past still scattered around my house that I can't bring myself to get rid of.

I found it years ago, tucked in a side pocket. I remember when it was purchased. It was part of a set I bought at a chess tournament in which Trevor was competing. At the time Evan was a baby in a stroller. How many chess tournaments I dragged him and his sister to! We would hang out in hotel lobbies or malls or libraries while Trevor played, and I would do my best to occupy the non-chess players for the day. I don't know what happened to the rest of this set, but somewhere along the way this lone guy ended up in my suitcase. For years now that's where he has remained, a symbol of a time long past. He has gone on lots of trips with me over the years. I forget about him between trips, but when I go to pack I reach into the pocket and there he still is, and somehow there is comfort in his being, and remaining, there. I think he may stay there always, and some day accompany me when I pay a visit to Evan and his wife and children.

But for now, like the author of "The Last One," I will treasure these days of still having a boy who, even in his ten-year-old bigness, wants to crawl up on my lap, put his arms around my neck, lay his head on my shoulder, and whisper in my ear, "I love you so much, Mom." He's not quite grown up yet, Mr. Pirate Man. And somewhere inside him there will always be that little boy who repeatedly dropped you from his stroller and reached his arms up to me, begging to be lifted out. Together, we'll hold on to the memory.

Memory Lane

Purging and organizing have begun in earnest as we look to a move in the next few months. Today I spent a good deal of time going through memorabilia, including many notes, cards and letters that people have written to us--and particularly to my husband in his work as a church musician--over the years. As I was reading through some of these treasures, the thought occurred to me that not only did they offer encouragement when they were first sent, but they are offering encouragement today. To use a cliché, they are truly gifts that keep on giving! Little did the people who sent them know how their words would live on.

Sometimes in life the voices of criticism, however few and weak and insubstantial they may be, can drown out the voices of approval. I think of my piano students, and how I like to tell them that it takes twenty times of playing something right to balance the one time they played it wrong. Unfortunately that seems to hold true for life as well. One person tells you you're no good, you're not worth his time, you're an impediment or a problem, and that's the person you have a hard time ignoring in spite of the hundred voices that are saying something else. So if there is someone in your life who has been a blessing to you, I encourage you to let him or her know. Not with an email that will get lost or even a phone call that will be over when you hang up, but with an old-fashioned card or note. Your subject will not only be encouraged when he reads your words tomorrow or the next day, but he will be encouraged when he rereads them five or ten or twenty years down the road. And as he soaks in your love and affirmation, gaining strength for the next part of his journey, he will think of you and be glad.

Memory

According to this article, men are more likely than women to suffer from MCI (mild cognitive impairment) resulting in, among other things, memory loss. But more and more my household seems to be the exception to that rule.

I have always been amazed at my husband's ability to remember facts. He is a walking encyclopedia of information on a diversity of topics, including history, geography, music, and politics, just to name a few. I never cease to be amazed by the breadth and depth of knowledge he can call to mind at the drop of a hat. This is not a guy you want to go up against in Trivial Pursuit.

In contrast, I have never been good at remembering factual information. I have a decent grasp of the big picture of history and know a few of the most significant names and dates and places, but there are many more that I have learned and forgotten.

And for years that has been just fine. I have always just told myself that my brain is different from my husband's--that it's okay that I don't have all that information in my head because as long as I remember the things that really matter, I can go find out the rest when I need to (especially since I have a walking encyclopedia in the house).

But a few weeks ago I forgot something rather important. It wasn't a birthday or anniversary or task that needed doing, but a past event that I knew about at one time but that somehow slipped out of my memory bank. So when the occasion arose for that event to be recalled it was nowhere to be found, and that fact threw me into something of a tailspin because of what it seemed to say not just about my head but about my heart. The event in question was something I felt I should have remembered because of its significance to a loved one, and my forgetting made me feel terrible because after all, if I really cared, I would not have forgotten.

But I did forget, and for several days that bothered me to no end. I'm a woman--a wife and a mother!--I'm not supposed to forget things like this! Facts, names, tasks, and errands are one thing (and I've had my share of forgetting all of them) . . . but a pivotal experience in the life of a loved one? That's something else. It was a shocking realization to discover that I could forget the momentous as easily as the trivial, and I went through several days of feeling like a horrible person.

But as I was stewing about all of this last week the words of a friend (who simply got caught up in my meltdown by virtue of being in the wrong place at the wrong time) gave me some comfort. You know what she said? "Cheryl, you're getting old. You're dying a little every day, and your body is showing it. It's happening to me, too. The problem is, we've never done this before, and it's scary. But it's normal. So relax. There's nothing wrong with you."

Who would have thought that it would be such a relief to have someone remind me of my own mortality? But ironically, that is exactly what her words did. Because if I can blame this on aging it means I'm not losing my mind! And I'm not a horrible, heartless person! I'm just getting old! Hallelujah!

Now where did I put that grocery list?