In Search Of . . . Written Words: Childhood Memory
It's odd. The things you remember from your childhood. The way little snapshots of little insignificant moment set against the back drop of so many. What is it about these that makes your brain access them more clearly than all the others?
With a slightly hazy recall, I remember the first time my mom made me up. She sold Mary Kay back then and using some extra samples, she made my face up. I was only six, but I felt so grown up. Especially, in the white frilly shift dress and the red belt.
I immediately ran downstairs to play. I may have looked like a grown up, but I was still a child.
I remember the same apartment trudging up stairs in a torrential downpour as Hurricane Danny rained down grey behind blue grey banisters. It was one of two Hurricane's I'd been through. To me it was a life event, it was bad enough school had been cancelled. I thought it set me apart from other people. How many people went through Hurricanes?
Why do little memories like that stay in your mind rather than the actual events of going to Disneyworld for the first time.
When I was seven, I had a baby doll that imitated a real baby. It laughed when you held it and cried when you laid it down. My mom and I were in my room and she laid my new brother down on the bed next to the baby doll.
They were the exact same size.
She told me to remember that moment; he wouldn't always be so small.
She wrote the date on the back of the dolls soft body. Now, nearly nineteen years later I remember it. Now, when my baby brother is nearly 6' 2", I still think about him lying on my blue flower print bedspread the same size as a baby doll.
I remember those small things that have no actual significance. Flashes of electric blues, magenta, lemon and lime clothes with matching socks and bows. Second snows that barely dusted the ground.
Why are they hardwired into the Random Access Memory portion of the brain? They have no baring on life, no life altering decisions. Always there though, ready to flash a childhood across my brain.
As always,
I immediately ran downstairs to play. I may have looked like a grown up, but I was still a child.
I remember the same apartment trudging up stairs in a torrential downpour as Hurricane Danny rained down grey behind blue grey banisters. It was one of two Hurricane's I'd been through. To me it was a life event, it was bad enough school had been cancelled. I thought it set me apart from other people. How many people went through Hurricanes?
Why do little memories like that stay in your mind rather than the actual events of going to Disneyworld for the first time.
When I was seven, I had a baby doll that imitated a real baby. It laughed when you held it and cried when you laid it down. My mom and I were in my room and she laid my new brother down on the bed next to the baby doll.
They were the exact same size.
She told me to remember that moment; he wouldn't always be so small.
She wrote the date on the back of the dolls soft body. Now, nearly nineteen years later I remember it. Now, when my baby brother is nearly 6' 2", I still think about him lying on my blue flower print bedspread the same size as a baby doll.
I remember those small things that have no actual significance. Flashes of electric blues, magenta, lemon and lime clothes with matching socks and bows. Second snows that barely dusted the ground.
Why are they hardwired into the Random Access Memory portion of the brain? They have no baring on life, no life altering decisions. Always there though, ready to flash a childhood across my brain.
As always,
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