The Trouble with Memory

September 3, 2019

Shut Up & Write!

The Coral Tree Cafe

The Trouble with Memory

Today’s goal is to get down a bunch of ideas about my dad that might launch later, more developed stories.

This morning I emailed my cousin, the oldest of the 5 cousins (I am the youngest) to get some ideas about my dad that would pre-date any memories of my own.  (Eagerly awaiting his reply…!)  I will also email his sister, the second-oldest cousin. She is more of the official curator of family history-- the one who actually goes on ancestry.com and who archives the old photos and slides.  (Remember slides…?!?)  Wow… the word “slides” itself triggers some rusty old memories that I’d forgotten I had. Memories of the ancient (but new at the time) slide projectors and retractable screens on their own folding tripods; white sheets hung on a wall in the absence of the screens.  Reliving or witnessing our parents’ memories, imagining the live-action version of the still, black-and-white or sepia photos that clicked loudly through the machine, its fan competing for the louder sound.

If only more memories were so easy to recall.  What would be the trigger words that could pop more memories into my head like that one? ... like popcorn bursting at the lid of my mom’s sturdy old pot on the stove? Usually, memories are tricky.  They’re evanescent… so few of them making the great, bounding leap into permanent, long-term memory.

Writing down recollections and turning them into a sort of recorded oral history can also be tricky.  As I was explaining to my 4 co-writers at the table a few minutes ago, memories of a man who died 27 years ago can be . . . frozen.  At this point in time, I have no new or ongoing memories of my dad.  I tend to recall the typical ones. The ones that were already stuck in my head since they happened, or since I was told about them. These memories tend to be representative of how I remember him, or representative of intense emotional incidents that wouldn’t leave my memory even if I wanted them to.

Today is my day to write down those memories-- the ones that are already stuck in my head; the ones that span the years of his life.  They will, I hope, launch me into a pot of light, fluffy crunchy memories to snack on during the faded old slideshows of his life.

When he was a senior in high school, my dad took a field trip to the Western Electric Company in downtown Chicago. At the end of the tour, an aptitude test was given.  My dad scored the highest mark in the group and was, to my recollection of the story, offered a job straight out of high school.

My dad attended Northwestern University for a while, but he did not finish.  It’s a prestigious, nationally-ranked school in the elite north-shore area of Chicago. I don’t know why he didn’t finish, but my guess would be that he left to earn an income rather than pay tuition. Maybe it was to enter The Service.  I’m truly not sure in what order these events happened.  That’ll be for my cousins to figure out.

Apparently, Dad was a teacher of some kind in the Army.  I don’t know what; I don’t know where.  But I believe he was able to avoid active service out in the field.  What I do know is that he had a big, brownish-green Army blanket that he brought home and carried in his car trunk at all times, it seems. This blanket would come out at picnics and at 4th of July fireworks shows.  It was big and heavy and itchy.  It wasn’t pleasant to sit on, yet it is nevertheless associated with plenty of happy family memories.

My dad and his brother SCUBA dove together on the great lakes.  My uncle hung a porthole on the wall in his and my aunt’s living room. I always thought it was so neat-- like a little window looking nowhere-- or anywhere I wanted to imagine. I could write a page on my uncle alone, but that’s not why I’m here.  That’s an emotional topic for me as well-- my Godfather-- since he died when I was yet in high school.  On Easter Sunday.  Of cancer. But many of my memories of my dad are tied in with his brother, so I will indulge the urge a little and jot down some of those idea-memories here too.

My dad was the younger brother.  I think he often felt the younger-brother syndrome:  less popular, less good looking, and less handsome.  Or maybe that’s just how I remember him in comparison.  That’s sad to write, I know, but maybe because my uncle was sort of my hero, I tend to get a little prejudiced and esteem him higher on some of those criteria.  No doubt to many, my dad was equal or even above my uncle in some of those ways!  I’m told that my aunt’s cousin dated him (gasp! Scandal!  ha ha ha!). 

My dad loved the outdoors:  loved the water, loved camping, loved being in parks.  I get that affinity from him.  He enjoyed gardening and sometimes forced his love of yard work on us: the kids. He loved cars.  He would rather buy an old car to work on rather than buy a new car to feel pampered. He prided himself on getting older cars up and running again. I also get that interest from him.  Compared to most girls, as a child I knew more makes and models of cars than most kids my age or gender. I know that the 1965 Mustang was the epitome of muscle cars and that the 1969 Corvette was probably the preeminent symbol for a man’s midlfe crisis. Today, I drive stick, and I appreciate cars for what they're made to do and what they're able to do.

My dad liked dogs, but he liked cats as well.  Due to my mom’s skittishness, we had cats-- one after the other, and always one at a time.  The only exception to that is when my brother found a black kitten-- a very strong-willed kitten-- and brought her home with him. This cat stayed with my dad until, after his death, I brought her back to California with me in a cat carrier on a plane.  She hated it.