One Early Memory

Thanks for all of your thoughtful notes and comments on last week’s blog about my mother, “The Girl Behind the Camera.”   One reader shared his struggle to reconstruct his own family history, now that both of his parents are unavailable.  His father had written a family history, but my friend found it “dry as dust.”  I’m not surprised – this has happened to several other friends who wrote hard-to-read family histories.  So when one of my children suggested that I write our family history, I thought about what that might look like.

My first three rules of writing are, Make it interesting, Make it interesting, and Make it interesting.  So I’m not going to ever write the long family story.  I’ll stick to my standard blog length – 300 to 600 words – and only include those events that stand out in my heart and mind as notable and worth sharing.

One of my earliest memories is from April 12, 1945 (I asked Siri for the exact date).

In 1940 my parents bought a home for $5,700. They lived in that house until my father moved to be closer to me in 2003. Dad was proud because it was on a hillside, and our residence was an “upside down” house with the bedrooms on the floor below the entry.  My brother and I shared one bedroom, my parents shared the other.

I was five years old on that memorable April day in 1945. My mother and I were standing in the shared bathroom between the bedrooms and she was crying.

“Why are you crying, Mommy?”

She tried to control her tears.  “Because . . . because the president just died.”  She was referring to Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who was first inaugurated on March 4, 1933.  He served four terms as President.

I remember her tears because even at a young age I was sensitive to the emotional state of others.  I often feel that I know a person’s mood when they enter the room.  Of course, in 1945 I was very young and still learning the best way to respond to someone else’s sadness. Since then, I have learned how to deal with emotions, but in some ways I will always be learning.

I don’t remember exactly how I tried to comfort my mother, but I knew “The President” was someone important to her, and I knew what death meant – that he would never come back.

My father always said that his earliest memory was of people celebrating the end of World War I when he was three years old.  I’m still amazed that as recently as last year I was talking to a man who actually remembered an event that happened a full century before.

As Shakespeare wrote, “Brevity is the soul of wit.”  So I won’t say more here, other than to mention that I have been reflecting on my earliest memories, and found many more than I thought I would have.  Of course, memory is subjective – which is something to think about as well.

I don’t remember ever hearing my parents fight (although I know they did). But I I’ll never forget my mother crying.

Perhaps you have memories you’ve carried your entire life. Feel free to share. I’d love to hear from you.  (Best email address is alan@acfpm.com)

Alan