There are a bunch of memories floating around in my head that are so intrinsic to me, it seems like there’ll never be a time when I don’t recall them. But lately I’ve been recalling certain aspects of my life that I haven’t thought about in years. Those memories have never been scrawled or typed up in a journal, ready for easy recall, and if it weren’t by chance or some other force, who’s to say I ever would’ve remembered them again? (I’m getting too eerie for myself now.)
So for this post, I’ve yanked a few happenings from my life from my mental vault to give them proper recognition, ensuring they won’t again be lost to the annals of time.
One
Before we moved into what’s still my parents’ house when I was five, my family and I lived in an apartment complex, where I shared a bedroom with my younger brother. We had two twin-sized beds on either side of the room, and sometimes there’d be a metal gate on the side that wasn’t up against the wall so we wouldn’t fall out of bed. (That happened to me a couple times and I’d get the wind knocked out me.) In that apartment, my dad would work on his model-building projects in the world’s tiniest closet. I remember melting crayons against a hot iron and then wiping the gooey color off on the wall, and ultimately getting spanked for that. I also recall eating a tiny gold LEGO coin and thinking I was doomed. But here I am, alive to tell the harrowing tale!
Two
When my brother and I were little, there was a Daddy Long Legs chilling in the garden behind the garage. My mom, who likes to anthropomorphize everything, said his name was George, and gave him this whole backstory that I don’t remember, but it really helped us “befriend” the spider instead of fear it or stomp on it. This is a bit odd, because my mom hates spiders, so I don’t know why she’d go through the trouble of making us care about it. Her hatred must not be as great as her interest in goofing off with kids. In any case, for a long while after, every Daddy Long Legs we saw was a George.
By the way, how cool is the term “Daddy Long Legs”? That’s the name of a lanky upright bass player wearing a suit with too-short sleeves and playing in a 1950s jazz band right there.
Three
There were two birch trees that grew out front of my parents’ house, book-ending the mouth of the driveway. (Nearby was a red barrel with a large calligraphy “S” on it. It was a decorative element that often housed families of birds.) I loved playing with the birch seed pods, grinding them to flakes against the palm of my hand. As kids, my brother and I would collect the seed pods and add water, making mush “food.” I think once we even baked them or let them dry so they could be used as bird food. (Do birds even eat birch tree seeds? I know, I know: Ask Google.)
Four
My family and I went on a trip to Washington DC when I was in elementary school. I don’t remember much of this trip except for a moment in a museum gift shop. I got a deck of crystal/gemstone fact cards—I was all about the sparkly ones, like the Hope Diamond. (Who isn’t?) I also got another educational card deck, this one about the First Ladies. I thought Jackie O was gorgeous. (Who doesn’t?!) I was like, “WTF is up with all these other non-foxy First Ladies?!” Dolley Madison is supposed to have been such a Babesaurus Rex, but I don’t see it.
Anyway, I believe it was in this same gift shop that some fellow knelt beside me with a picture of George H. W. Bush. He explained to me, as if we were posing for some Rockwellian scene, about what a great president this dude was/is (I forget the year). It didn’t occur to me until JUST NOW that maybe this dude was a senator or something instead of just some rando! What if this was his kissing-babies moment?!
Five
It doesn’t even occur to me anymore how I hold my pencil, which is in a way that is pretty nontraditional. It involves the use of my entire hand. I’ve had people say that it looks really uncomfortable, but it doesn’t bother me. I actually feel tension and tightness and strain when I hold it the “correct” way, and it feels like whatever I’m about to write is a lie. It’s simply not me.
I remember my first grade teacher trying to get me to hold my pencil in the preferred way. I stared at my hand, confounded, uncomprehending what it was trying to do. My fingers kept falling back into place, into my way. Fortunately, this lesson was a one-time thing: After a couple minutes, Mrs. Schuller was like, “Oh, whatevs,” and walked away, leaving me to do my thing.
But what if she’d succeeded? Would my handwriting be much different? Would I be able to draw the same? Would I have even wanted to draw?
Perhaps this marks another small decision that wasn’t so small at all.
—
Please leave a comment and share this content with your friends on social media—
this helps ensure the continuation of the content you love!
