not a sound from the pavement

I've been reading through some of my old journals that I started keeping (with no great regularity, mind you) in elementary school.  What struck me most about looking into the past is how little I remember.  I have to make a serious effort to dredge up any real memory of things so huge that I felt the need to write out highly dramatic accounts of them several years ago.

The conclusion I reached in reading my journals (other than I was a heathen and should have been ashamed of myself most days) is that my memory? It sucks.  A lot.

I've always been semi-aware that I have a bad memory for most things and I know for a fact that most of the stuff I learned in school I retained just long enough to pass the test, but I would have figured I would remember things about my own life.  Especially things that caused me to write things like, "My mind is lower than it's ever been..." and "This may well turn out to be the worst weekend of my life..."

I also made some reference to being a "mature, graceful 14 year old woman," but that's beside the point for now.

I can't believe I was ever that over the top and dramatic.  Reading stuff like that just makes me want to set myself on fire.

My memory is strongest when it comes to remembering what I wore on most important occasions (the first time I met the hubby... green and white Hawaiian print shorts and a spaghetti strap tank top) and some not-so-important occasions (hubby's first pre-op consultation before having his hernia repair... blue sailor-style pants and white henley).  Thank goodness for that ability of memory because it comes in handy loads of times.

So anyway... all the thought about my dwindling memory got me to wanting to remember and even trying to remember any random details I could dredge up about my childhood and young life.

Here's some stuff I came up with:

My mom used to sleep in a purple and white gingham nightgown.

When I was little and we would visit my great-grandmother (my paternal grandfather's mom, Grandma), I would always dash into her "formal living room" to feel of one particular pillow.  It had embroidered strawberries and vines on one side, but the other side was dark green velvet.  It felt amazing.  Also in that room was an antique secretary with old dolls in it.  They weren't for playing with, but she let me look at them from time to time.  The toys for playing with were in the closet in her den, which was actually meant to be a bedroom.  The closet had a sliding door and it always came off its track.  She also had some of those old metal Coca-Cola trays with pictures of smiling rosy-cheeked women on them.  Maybe they were supposed to be coasters.  I just realized I really want some of those...

One of my other great grandmothers (I was blessed to know 3) babysat me fairly often when I was little.  This was my paternal grandmother's mom, Granny.  She kept RC in her fridge and we would drink it with a splash of lemon juice from tiny little juice glasses.  She also always had mini Snickers.  I can remember which cabinet she kept them in.  It was kid-level.

I remember a science lesson about sound waves which inspired my dad to drive to my grandparent's down the road from us, stand in their driveway, and ring a cowbell.

These are the things I've come up with so far.  This remembering thing is a lot tougher than you'd think.

Senility should be a blast.

I'll be the most mature and graceful old lady in the nursing home.  Look out Bingo Night, here I come! Ask me what I wore to shuffleboard 3 weeks ago!