Five Crazy Things: Sense Memory

Barbara: Even if you haven’t read the novel (and, sadly, I have not), like me, you’re probably familiar with the  “involuntary memory” phenomenon made famous by Marcel Proust in Remembrance of Things Past: the one where inhaling the fragrance of freshly baked little cakes known as “madeleines” suddenly brings him back to a very specific (and lovely) time in his childhood.

We all have vivid memories triggered by sense-experience. What first five (lovely) memories do you recall?

1. The smell of a warm field of wildflowers brings me back to ambling through a warm field across from my house on a sunny day when I am 12.

2. The smell of apples in an orchard brings me back to a road trip through the Okanagan Valley when I am no older than 3.

3. The sound of a car signal ticking on a dark drive brings me back to those nights in childhood when I would be hovering near sleep, lulled by the rhythms of the motor and my quiet family around me.

4. A baby’s head. Of course—the sweet heads of my own babies.

5. The smell and taste of grilled fish brings me instantly back to my honeymoon in Portugal, sitting at a beachside café with Phil and eating the most delicious grilled sardines ever, washed down with fruity, chilled sangria.

Deb: 

1. The smell of the mimeograph machine that I used to use in school—hot fresh smell of the ink. Takes me way back.

2. The smell of "kiddie" lipstick in those play makeup kits. 

3. The boy's baby head. Yeah I have to share that one with Barb.  Perfect. 

4. Lilacs, lavender, and wild raspberries remind me of Granny and Grandpa.

5. Plasticine—wow. 

Free Reign In the Summ'a

Barbara: There was a fun article in the Life section of the paper the other day (damned if I can find it to link), looking at the days of yore (ie the seventies and back) and the days of new, and comparing the differences in how children play. I know it’s a well-addressed theme—we got to play wherever and however we wanted and today’s kids are cloistered and over-protected—but still, I thought it would be fun to ask about your experiences and share our childhood memories … since it is summ'a, after all!!

Yeah, yeah, I am old enough to be from the generation of Free Play. When I think back to my childhood, I have vivid memories of hours and hours spent exploring the woods that abutted our suburban house. It was a large tract of land clearly slated for future development, but which languished in my time in wild, thorny, and verdant splendour. Hard dirt paths carved through the woods, ample clue that they were popular with more than just this curious 9-year-old child. But I don’t remember ever seeing anyone. I could take an entire artillery of flotsam with me—Barbie dolls, sand pails, plastic animals—and create new and amazing worlds in those woods. I could invent stories rife with travesty and betrayal and magic and deep abiding love. I could lie amid thigh-high grasses and just inhale the dry, hot, wildflower fragrance. I never worried about “strangers”; I cherished the bright rays of the sun; I didn’t imagine the possibility of fierce animals or broken bones or helplessness. I know I must have played in these woods with my friends, but strangely, that’s not what I remember. The memories that linger of this carefree time are the ones of me alone, responsible to no one, utterly unrestrained.

And then times changed and I grew up and so did the world and our fears and our woes. And I had my own children and had to make a choice (or choiceS: choice after choice after choice) on how we would raise them. Sadly, I couldn’t risk allowing them to utter abandon. On the one hand, I don’t agree with the mother in the article who laments, “The world is a different place!” It is in many ways, but not, I don’t think, in the pure mathematical logic of more psychopaths—because that’s who we fear when we fear the “stranger”. I imagine that the odds are about the same (with the exception, maybe, of a slightly higher population affecting the pure amount of them). On the other hand, I completely relate to the father who says something like, “But I can’t risk my child being the one child.” So I never walked the street without holding a hand and I never let them out of my sight (and so never lost them). That said, I was always aware of a kind of childhood injustice when it came to their freedom—the freedom necessary, in my opinion, to develop their imaginations and curiosity and problem-solving skills.

I asked the girls about how it was to grow up the way they did … and their answers surprised me. They have their own sweet memories of childhood abandon. For them, it was sweet summer days spent in the backyard creating worlds in their sandbox or in our garden. It was cold winter hours in the “mess” of a basement where we allowed their toys to have their own sort of wild free reign. They say they have no dearth of experience when it comes to freedom and independence. Even if I only remember hovering at the kitchen window making sure they were safe outside or tracking their basement safety from upstairs. Maybe a kid’s always gonna do what a kid’s gotta do!

What is your experience of childhood play—is it carefree abandon or cloistered restriction?

Deb: Mine was a combination of both, I would say. My parents certainly wanted to know where I was, but we were allowed to run free in the fields, and up at the cottage we spent endless hours by the creek, in the forest, and in the farmer’s field. We had a huge tree on the other side of the creek that we would climb every day as part of our ongoing game of Robin Hood. We would sneak into the abandoned (haunted, to our young imaginations) cottage that we were told not to enter but did anyway. Walks to “Big Rock” for the big climb and picking wild raspberries were all part of the daily fun. Our parents were secure in the knowledge that we would come home for meals, which we always did.

I will have to ask the boy if he had any such adventures that I did not know about. Sadly I was not as cool a parent when I became a Mom. I was, I am ashamed to admit, too worried about his safety to let go too too much. But I think the boy would tell tales of tobogganing on the big hill, building snow forts, and climbing the next-door neighbour’s tree. The toughest and best thing I ever did was letting go enough for him to have camp experiences. After one session, I settled into letting go and trusting that he was going to be okay. Also, having a pool has adventure built in and I think he remembers it that way. I hope the fact that I walked him to school till he was shaving does not colour his memories of childhood abandon! :-)

Phil sent me this and I had to include it. Credits, anyone???

Reality Versus My Reality

Deb: Recently a friend shared a recollection with me, my husband, and a group of our mutual friends about an event that we all shared. He was so passionate about this memory and so very detailed that it was stunning.

It was stunning because it barely resembled the truth. The rest of us involved in the event all remember it unfolding in the exact same way and yet it was nothing like our friend described it.

What made it most interesting to me is that on the day the event unfolded, he was the bad guy in the piece. By that I mean that we all feel he made some selfish and self-serving choices that day. The most fascinating part of the whole thing is that clearly his brain set to work on spinning the story that very day. His brain realized that he could not resolve himself to be the bad guy and so his brain set about the task of having the incident rewired. And believe me, when he recalled this event at our social gathering you could tell, really tell, that he believed every single word he was saying. He was truly not trying to pull the wool over our eyes. The event had become history to him, his history. But it was quite a distance from the truth.

And it made me think about perception, point of view, personalizing and spinning. I am the queen of it. I have memories that I hold dear and memories that shock and sadden me, but I wonder: Are they real? Or at least, what part of them is real? Do we all do this?

Is there any real event with one point of view?

Life is like the telephone game. We take, we add, we embellish and we pass it on. It got me to pondering specific moments in my life, old family lore and scandalous stories from days gone past. How much of it is true? Do some moments from life get spun so fast and furiously that they end up without a shred of truth in them?

I know that I like to embellish. I have always liked to embellish because I have been a storyteller since I was a kid and I always wanted to go for the “awe” factor. Ramp it up, keep it interesting, hook ‘em in. I never meant any harm. I still don’t. But I know I do it constantly and without even thinking. If someone says, “Wow, I bought three little bags of groceries and it cost me $120.00! Invariably my story will come out of my mouth as one bag, no meat or fruit––$150!!!  Can’t help myself.

I have been thinking of this lately as I have a dear friend whose husband calls her out each and every time she exaggerates. He feels it is beneath her, and maybe he is right. My husband does not call me out, bless him. I say "bless him" not because I think I am correct in doing this, but because I would be really embarrassed if called out in front of people. Had an old boyfriend who made it his life’s work to call me out.

But it made me wonder if I shouldn’t start to monitor this myself?  And then came the night when our friend recalled this unrecognizable event and I thought, “Yeah, I better.”

Barbara: I’ve always admitted I have a terrible memory, so I’m usually not surprised to find out I’ve remembered something wrong (or forgotten it altogether). But I am often surprised to hear stories through more than one perspective and to hear how much they differ, like in your story, Deb.

As for your friend’s skewed perspective of the past (hisstory, as it were ;-) ), I think this is at the heart of most of our skewering: in order to accept our weaknesses, we alter the truth to turn them into strengths, buffering our psyches with padded costumes.

Siblings will probably have the most opposite memories of childhood events because our immature psyches will twist events as we process them. My mother and I were just talking about that the other day. She was bemoaning the fact that grown children often talk about these catastrophic moments in their upbringing that “scar them for life”, and that their parents usually have no idea that anything profound even happened. As we compared notes about what we remembered from her perspective as a parent and my own as a child, we ended up laughing uproariously at how she’d completely forgotten things that “haunted” me (me sticking my tongue out at her when I was five and she slapping me soundly across the face––I actually remember feeling I totally deserved this), and I’d completely forgotten things that haunted her (calling me a “stupid goat” at much the same age in front of a neighbour—my mother does not and never did think I was a stupid goat … even when I was/am). 

Valentine's Memories

Yes, Deb is still at it

Deb: There is so much written about this day. Newspapers, magazines and television are filled with the highs and the lows of this beautiful/stupid/ romantic/commercial/ depressing/useless/sweet day.

Everyone loves a lover, right? But what if you have no lover, or have just lost your lover, or are still searching for a lover or are in a loveless relationship. I have read endless spewings about the ugliness of Valentine’s Day and how the pressure to love and be loved on February 14th is rammed down our throats.

Valentine’s Day when you are a child is so sweet. I have such lovely memories of paper lace doilies, cardboard cupids, scissors and paste. I remember to this day when I was in grade one. We had all spent the day before making our little Cupid pouches to collect all our cards the next day. I went home that night with my list of friends and my Mom said, “We are giving to each child in your class or to no one at all”. I know that this is standard practice today, but I assure you it was not in the 50’s. My Mom, bless her heart, taught me a lesson that day of what grace and love is. I was so excited by this concept and rushed to school with a full heart.

There was a little girl in my class: Wendy. She was not popular and some of the kids made fun of her. I remember her sitting there, eyes downcast through the whole process, trying not to see the teacher repeatedly walking past her desk. As my pocket began to burst at the seams, I became so focused on her, staring in disbelief at her empty cupid pocket. Suddenly her face lit up and she looked over at me, smiling a shy grateful smile. It is one of those photographs the mind snaps and keeps forever.

So Wendy, this Valentine’s Day, I send my love to you. I hope you are having a full rich life with a Cupid pocket that is spilling out onto the floor.

Barbara: This story is so sweet, it may have made my Valentine’s Day, Deb. I do remember the cards and excitement of the day when I was little, and while I’m sure my pocket would NOT have been bursting at the seams, I actually don’t associate any ill feelings with that classroom tradition.

Today, I guess I’m conflicted about Valentine’s Day. All those sentiments you hyphenated above? I go through all of them on an hourly basis on the days surrounding Valentine’s Day. For my husband and I, one year it feels like a forced holiday, the next like a welcome celebration. Some years we’re all about the little presents and the dinners out, and others we hardly notice the date, never mind acknowledging it with any kind of pomp and circumstance. And this doesn’t have anything to do with our affections for each other. This year we’ve had an exceptionally affectionate year and neither of us are really into the Day at all. He may get a little something in the spirit of love (you can use your imagination if you want), but I’m still not exactly sure how we’re going to spend the evening. We didn’t make a dinner reservation (last year we did), but we will still probably make an especially nice dinner and watch a movie. Mmmm.

Bottom line, as much as I may not get all wrapped up in it, what’s wrong with a little romantic to-do? And if it includes sending out love to the friends in our “class”, I can’t sign off until I’ve sent you each, dear readers, a little candy heart and my Valentine hugs and kisses. 


And click here for a Valentine's card for you from us!

First sign of insanity?

Deb: When I was growing up, my mother would pass my bedroom and say, “Who are you talking to?” to which I would respond, “Myself”. “You know that’s the first sign of insanity,” she would say. Of course, she also said the same thing when I bit my nails or twirled my hair. I quickly realized that it was her way of stopping me from doing anything she didn’t want me to do. I was sure that before I knew it, a messy bedroom, kissing boys and listening to records at top volume would be added to the long list of these harbingers of insanity. 

I find myself thinking about this because as I get older, I...well...find myself talking to myself. Every day. Sometimes in an animated fashion. And I have to say, it’s great. I love it. 

Sometimes when you’re alone and something out-of-the-ordinary happens, being silent just doesn’t cut it. A well-placed “Good for you, Deb!” or even “Stupid git, now you have to go back upstairs for your lipstick,” makes me feel like I am on it!!! 

I had to make a couple of difficult business calls this week and found myself saying, “Well, that’s over, wasn’t easy, but it’s over.” After saying that out loud, I was able to let it go. When the brain just thinks it, you can so easily think, “No, it’s not over, not NEARLY over!” But when you say it out loud, it’s done––stamped it, black magic, God, no rub-outs. Done. 

I keep telling myself that there is nothing wrong with me just because I engage in verbal solitary intercourse, is there? I mean, at least I haven’t started arguing with myself. But I still bite my nails.

Barbara: I so get the “when it’s said out loud, it’s a lightened load” thing. Totally believe in that. Never tried it on myself, though. Maybe you’ve converted me to “therapeutic insanity”, Deb….But then, on second thought, I’m definitely the type to end up arguing with myself …. Except, I could force myself not to argue, couldn’t I? I could be calmly reassuring, right? … Except, when have I ever been able to calmly reassure myself? Other people, sure, but myself? ….I don’t know…exhausted already…. 

PS: “Stamped it, black magic, God, no rub-outs”….Huh?....

Deb: From when we were kids. “Stamped it, black magic, God, no rub-outs!” The phrase of a kid laying claim to his or her proposal! 

I remember like it was yesterday the day it all fell apart. Two kids and the language of the streets at stake: “Stamped it, black magic, God, no rub-outs!” 

“You don’t need to say ‘no rub-outs’ cause God’s highest!”

“Okay then, God...Infinity!”

“Infinity doesn’t top God because God INVENTED infinity.”

“Did not, ‘cause infinity was there first. ‘Cause it was infinite!”

“Doubt it, ‘cause God INVENTED infinity and then decided to FILL it!”

“Well I call ‘Black Magic’ cause I’m an ATHEIST!”

“Doesn’t matter, ‘cause God INVENTED atheists.” 

“Doesn’t count ‘cause I don’t believe in Him.”

“You said HIM so that means you know He’s real so that means you believe in Him...So GOD’S HIGHEST!”

You couldn’t argue with that so we all cheered and, just as we started to play again, the streetlights came on and we had to go home. 

Barbara: I love that.