Memories: Not what happened, but how we remember it.

On our trip out to Vegas, I brought a notebook along and was writing down family remembrances. Funny thing; because we remember something, we think it happened that way. Ask three people who were there when it happened and you get three different memories. These days, I'm writing a family history of sorts, centered on my Mother. One of my Mother's favorite credos is "Life is making memories, so make the best ones you can." I find now, in writing about our family that my Mother's memories, my Father's, my sisters, my Aunt's and Uncle's memories tend to flow, one into another. I've heard my Mother tell stories so many times about growing up on a small southern Wisconsin farm that when I recall them, it's almost as if I lived them. I especially realize that in writing songs. I wrote a song titled Uncle Jim, and you'd think it was about my Uncle Jim. And parts of it are. My Uncle Jim's son Howard is in the song, and it is about living on a farm My Uncle Jim was a farmer for part of his life, and I remember visiting the farm vividly. And most likely, very innacurately. In the song,there's a verse:

   After all the work is done, down by the cow pond
   The kids would all go sliding through the old corn fields
   Waiting for the bell to call them home to supper
   And racing old Buster down the hill

I can remember that clearly, never having done it. Buster was my Mother's dog when she was a little girl. I have pictures of him and I've raced him down the hill many times. In my mind. And the memories are almost as strong as if I actually did.

Another verse has my Uncle Jim:

   "Reading Reader's Digest for the 14th time
    Puffing on a bowl of old Prince Albert
    And sipping on some elderberry wine."

I don't know if my Uncle Jim ever drank elderberry wine or smoked a pipe, or read Reader's Digest. But, my Father did. I can remember the small smoking table my Father had next to his chair, with slanted wooden trays on the sides to hold magazines, and a copper lined compartment for keeping tobacco. (I can't remember the name for those tobacco storage boxes... something like a commodore, but that was Lionel Richie's group, wasn't it?) (or was it a commode? ... nah.. I think that's French for toilet.)

A Humidore... that's it. Sometimes memories need coaxing.

All this is alright. If I can give Uncle Jim and my cousin Howard Mom's dog, I guess it's alright to give him my Father's elderberry wine, Reader's Digest and Prince Albert.

When it comes to writing memories, I guess it's more accurate to say "This is how I remember it," than "This is how it happened."

We've all heard musicians who played all the notes and sang all the words, but never got the song. The same principals apply in remembering our lives, and those of others. In a way, remembering how it felt, and how you preceived it through your own beliefs and prejudices is probably more important than getting it right. Our resident philosopher, Elmer Fudd taught me that. For a guy who keeps hunting the same wabbit, he sure is wise.

Behind the ears.

Hmmm... that doesn't sound right..

Good to be back.

Jerry