I Remember

Research says names are the first to go, and l am that stage sometimes. You, whoever you are, are in a concentric circle. A friend or family member I am looking at can be identified. As the circle expands, time needed to recall becomes extended. In writing, I often have to put a dash and hopefully can add the last name. Later during the day while stirring spaghetti, Melissa pops into my mind.

What I don’t want to forget are the stories, those tales I know or I want people to know of my history whether those tales are important to them or not. When I was less than four we lived in one story house six feet off the ground that my daddy built next to the school where he was principal. In the backyard, my mother had him dig a hole and she put in it a rather large glass jar – maybe crowd size that she had gotten from the school cafeteria. She caught rain water in it and saved it to wash our hair because the other water was hard, a term that meant lots of minerals and didn’t leave your hair smooth and shiny. Listen to my mother’s voice. “I looked out the kitchen window and there were these two legs kicking in the air. Her shoulders stopped her going all the way in and there was just enough water in the bottom to wet the top of her head. I said, ‘Charis, what were you doing?'” I told her I just wanted some water to make a mud pie. I don’t remember the happening, just the retelling.

I want others to know about my taking violin in high school, not very successfully I’m afraid. The college professor who struggled with four of us in a quartet had us play in a parish competition in the college auditorium. Just as we managed to scape to the final resolution, the 4:00 whistle dismissing school sounded. Cacophony was the appropriate word. He shook his head as we looked at each other and broke into teen-age giggles. He did play at my wedding in appreciation for our disbanding after that.

That’s not all of them. Some are struggles and mistakes shared only with a special few. Combined with pictures, our children need to know what it was like as each was brought home into our family. A group of you need to be reminded of being tumbled like puppies in the back bedroom at the ranch to watch whatever the Thanksgiving special was. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang comes to mind. Words are strung together when we gather to recreate the person we were and the specialness of people around us. That may be why funerals are better named a memorial service. Share a story today.

The memory of the righteous is blessed. Psalm 10:7a