It is the little things that make the memories we cherish. We like to tell stories of our big dramas and adventures, but we are comforted for a lifetime by much that goes unnoticed as it happens.
These souvenirs of recollection may gather dust for years, like a steamer trunk of favorite things stored in the attic, put there because we were busy, moving, reorganizing. We come across it unexpectedly one day, and when we open it up, everything in it is new again. We wonder why we kept it out of sight for so long. We may even bring out a few keepsakes for display or keep them close by now that they have been rediscovered.
In my own attic, I kept stored the sound of the rocker on a pressure cooker. My fifth-grade homework is done, and we’re entertaining ourselves while our mother cooks supper. It’s cold outside, and the low rumble of the ancient furnace in the basement keeps winter at bay. We’re down in the workshop taking something apart to see how it functions or practicing the weird science of 11-year-olds. It is a time of innocence and discovery, and the world is a safe place. To this day, the sound of a rocker brings me comfort and gratitude.
There are many sounds stored in my trunk. Our dad’s morning wakeup whistle, the slam of a screen door, leaves crunching underfoot, a train whistle in the distance late at night, the call of mourning doves, and a rooster crowing. There are aromas. The pungent smell of an offended tomato plant when our grandmother sends one of us to the garden, and the smell of streak o’ lean cooking in her kitchen.
There are many, many images kept there. Some are accompanied by actual photos in old albums, but the memories are better. The darkness of a damp wood before dawn slowly turns gray as the fantastic images of a young hunter’s imagination become ordinary roots and rocks, and then rays of light divide the mist as the sun peeks over the mountain.
I remember the tall cornstalks in the gardens of two grandfathers. Every patch of corn is a corn maze to a five-year-old. Granny Nora’s crepe myrtles, Granny Cordie’s roses, and my mother’s chrysanthemums decorate the landscapes of the past.
Better than a recollection is a living memory. While the old family home quietly suffered in our absence, Mama’s abundant chrysanthemums had all but disappeared. Tracey discovered a tiny sprig clinging to life in sun-baked sand and rescued it. She brought it home and loved it, coaxed it back to health. It survived, and then it grew. She divided it and set it out in her roadside garden.
Today that sprig is a patch 8 feet wide and over 20 feet long. It is covered with blossoms, and this time of year it’s one of the last havens for pollinators of all kinds and hardy butterflies stubbornly clinging to life in the face of falling petals and approaching cold weather. Just above that patch is the living memory of Granny’s rose, and its aroma is a time machine.
Youth often forsakes sentimentality. It is a sad thing, and as natural as falling leaves. But while that which is trendy rejects keepsakes and memorabilia today, that which is human still has some awareness of our mortality. Though the pace of modern life seems to accelerate with every technological innovation, we fantasize that by capturing and posting as many images as possible we can somehow slow down the march of time, or at least reclaim some of those lost moments… someday. The computer prompts us with “on this day” notifications, but those images seem sterile because often though we were there physically, our awareness had raced on ahead.
I think of the hurried woman on the beach a few years ago who hopped out of her car, motor running, to snap a few photos of the lunar eclipse with her iPod before bustling on to her next destination. When she looks at those photos, will the pixels bring back the sound of the surf, the smell of the salt air or the stillness of the night? I wonder how many of the thousands of photos we click and post will ever be seen again, and if they are, will they bring back living memories?
Outside The Box 