Memories

I recently attending a writing workshop, and the instructor had us do an activity that, on the surface, seemed pretty benign. We were to write about a room that we remembered as a child. I thought he was going for the "lots of details" angle, but as I wrote, I realized what it was really about. The room I described was the living room in my childhood home. I am sure I did a masterful job of painting the picture of what the room looked like, but what took me by surprise was that my mind went from the aesthetics of the room to the people who often occupied it. Then, that led to memories I had about those people. It was a really sweet time in my life, and I had a special specific memory attached to that room. Who knew? My daddy plays the guitar, and he would often sit in that room and play what my sister and I called, "The Train Song." He would begin to play and yell out, "All Aboard!!!" My sister and I would then start to run in a circle chasing each other and giggling as my father's playing sped up time and time again. Finally, the train ride would "slow down" and be over, and my sister and I would fall into a heap on the floor laughing and gasping for air. When I wrote about that experience at the workshop, and as I write about it now, I get a bit teary. I had not thought about that in so many years, but the time my father spent doing that with us obviously hit a mark. He may have just taken fifteen or so minutes to do that every once in a while, but it meant a lot. I think those moments and others in the pile of memories where my parents took time with us certainly have helped define the women my sister and I have become as adults and as parents. I hope one day, my kids write about a memory or two that I played a small role in that made a difference in their lives.

Comments

[Grandpa]

I agree that it would be wonderful for children to have good memories of you. I'm sure your kids will.