Memories are made of this

The Queen of Memories, Memory Keeper, sentimental sap ... I've been called all of them and probably more, but I don't mind in the least. Over the past months I've reconnected with elementary school friends, college friends, and just this past weekend, friends from high school, as well.

Why do I remember who was at my birthday party when I was 5, or who had the lead in the 5th grade play, or what colors my class wore for field day in 3rd grade? I don't know, but what I do know is that memories of these things are important to me and I cherish them. They were banner days in my life that now spans almost fifty-five years. I grew up hearing my mother, grandmother, aunts, and uncles talking about things that happened when they were small. I still love to visit old cemeteries and read the dates on the tombstones (thanks, mom!), and I love depression glass, and old glass bottles that milk used to come in when it was left in a wooden box on our kitchen step. I have (and still use) pieces from my mother's first set of china, a simple pink and white Homer Laughlin design. I have my great-grandmother's butter churn. I have my grandfather's lantern from his position as caboose engineer with C & O Railroad.

A good portion of my memories are stored in boxes upon boxes of photographs and negatives. Some of them were mine, some my mother's, and others were copies of old photographs from the early-1900's compliments of my Aunt Nancy.

When I began finding old friends on Facebook, I began to scan old photos and post them for all to see, so I've taken on the somewhat dubious role of a historian of sorts. Most don't remember the things that I do, but it's alright. I'll remember for them.

To the dismay of my children, I am a collector. I refuse to part with things that hold so many memories for me. These things mean nothing to them, because I fear the memory bug has most likely skipped a generation, and that saddens me. I remember being fascinated with my grandmother's scrapbooks, but no one really cares what bits of my life are taped or glued to the yellowing pages of the ones that I labored over so lovingly all those years ago.

That is, except for those afore-mentioned friends, the ones who -like me- are yearning to grab hold of a piece of the past and cling to it for just a while longer.

My garage is a monument to my past. My son (I'll not reveal which one) once said, "You know, when you die we're pitching all of this stuff." 'Stuff' wasn't the exact word he used, but you get the drift. He's too young to 'get it', and he may never 'get it', and that's sad. It's sad because my past, my memories, are what has made me who I am today. Who I am today is a part of what my children are, and part of what their children will be.

One of my favorite films is "Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan." Just before he dies, Spock reaches for Bones McCoy, presses his fingertips to the doctor's forehead, and concentrates. In one of the last acts he performs, he whispers "Remember." Through mind-meld he has passed on the entire substance of his memory to the doctor, destined to be retrieved at a later time.

I wish I could do the same. For my children, for my friends, for anyone who might be even slightly curious about what made me tick.

Memories light the corners of my mind, and they always will.