Memories

“When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not…” – Mark Twain

I’ve been told I have a good memory. I remember a lot about my past, complete with details most people might forget. It’s hard to say if that is true since that’s simply how I remember. And, honestly, memories are based solely upon how you saw something – and no one sees the same event the same way.

I was four years old…four months away from turning five. I don’t know how spur-of-the-moment the trip was, but Dad had business in Iowa where my grandparents – his parents – lived. My Aunt Jacque was still at home with my grandparents, Aunt Boo lived nearby and Aunt Camille was visiting from Florida. So, we decided to drive up there as a family. Me, Mom, Dad and just-turned-two-years-old Katey.

I don’t remember my grandparent’s house in Iowa very clearly. I remember being told a troll lived in the basement. Being quite familiar with the story “Three Billy Goats Gruff”, you can imagine I didn’t want to venture into the basement. But I did with one of my aunts to find the Etch-a-Sketch. The troll was simply one of those little naked toys with bright pink hair.

I remember one of the bedrooms. I joined Aunt Jacque and Aunt Camille on the bed to watch television. Desiring to be as “cool” as my nineteen-year-old Aunt Jacque, I copied how she stretched out on her stomach, her chin resting on her hands and her legs up in a ninety-degree angle, ankles crossed. When she put her legs down, I put mine down. Aunt Camille noticed and laughed, but when you’re four you’re not very self-conscious and I just kept right on being “cool”.

I remember the kitchen, although I can’t say I ever stepped foot in it. When your grandmother’s dog – Pierre – sat in there threatening to bite your hand or foot off if you crossed the doorway, you just didn’t venture in.

And I very clearly remember Grandma spending hours brushing out my doll Kate’s hair. As with most dolls of the 80’s, Kate’s hair was only silky and blond when first out of the box. It soon became not-so-blond and matted. But Grandma insisted it needed to be silky again and brushed, and brushed, and brushed.

In Iowa I learned that Flea Markets don’t actually sell fleas (even though Dad said so and I kept looking for them), I got a crocheted bunny pin I had on a jacket for a long time and I got my first bike which was my dad’s old one with training wheels that wobbled and we put blocks of wood on the pedals so I could reach.

At least, these are the things I remember.

Pictures prove that Katey and I dressed up as cowboys that Halloween. I had real cowboy boots and a cowboy hat along with my jeans and real cowboy shirt. The mustache had to be painted on. And I didn’t have a horse. But that didn’t matter since they ride tractors in Iowa. We didn’t go trick-or-treating. Instead, we went to what I think was my grandparent’s church to a party.

I remember the party being in the basement, with round tables and kind of spooky lights – or maybe just not enough light. I’m sure we ate candy and other treats, but the only thing I truly remember was my opportunity to bob for apples for the very first time. It’s a lot harder than it looks. And as I was not willing to duck my entire head into the bucket of water, I didn’t catch one. But I did get a bite out of one, which wasn’t bad for a four-year-old.

Perhaps some of these memories are dreams…but when lined up next to the dreamlike memories I have of the events that occurred within the next four days, I don’t think they are. Because I learned a dozen years after that fall of 1984 that what I had thought were dreams were the dark memories of a four-year-old. Memories that have shaped my life ever since…