“Every man’s memory is his private literature.”

It is such a lovely morning. The sun is warm, and there is a slight breeze. I saw lots of birds when I was on the deck earlier so I need to get out there and fill the feeders to keep them coming. I’ll stay around to keep the squirrels at bay. I did start to put my ottoman together yesterday. I got the drawer done, but the other pieces are heavier than I expected so it will take a bit longer to figure out how to hold them or even prop them and use the screw driver at the same time. During the game today, I’ll give it another try. I refuse to let a few screws and pieces of wood get the better of me.

Memory is a funny thing. I remember long ago, but I forget a bit of last week. I figure as I’m getting older all the old memories are finding a way to surface and are keeping the new ones from settling. I have all these pictures in my memory bank of single moments. I remember wearing my gray spring jacket, the one with the zipper, when I rode my bike to school. I can also remember feeling the wind on my face when I rode that bike as fast as I could down the hill from where I lived. I know exactly where I sat in the third grade. My sixth grade teacher had thick glasses. They made her eyes look huge. I sat near the back. In high school, we had a small room with a stage. It was where the drama club performed one act plays. I remember my directorial debut. My star forget all her lines and kept repeating the same line, something about wings. The nuns sitting beside me said nothing. I died.

The first stop before we left for Ghana was staging. It was in Philadelphia, and I remember where I sat on the flight to get there and I remember the guy who sat beside me. I had several carry-ons, and he asked jokingly if I had enough luggage with me. I told him I was leaving for the Peace Corps in Africa. He bought me a couple of drinks out of guilt. When I was outside the airport waiting for a taxi, I saw a guy about my age with lots of luggage. I just knew he and I were both going to the same place. We shared a cab. The last image I have of Philadelphia is sitting in the lobby reading the paper. The front page announced Judy Garland had died.

These singular moments were not monumental or life changing, but, for some reason, they still sit taking space in my memory drawer, but I’m okay with that. I don’t really need to know why I’m in the kitchen. It will come back to me.

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4 Comments on ““Every man’s memory is his private literature.””

  1. Christer Says:

    Cold, rainy and windy over here. But i don´t care because i was down by the ocean today! I enjoyed every second of it and I do have some mussel shels with me home 🙂

    My memory works much the same I´m afraid, but I have most troubkles with names. Lots of us seemes to have that problem. You know if I wantv to talk about a movie star and just can´t remember the name and says: You know, she was married to him that was in that movie 🙂 and the respons usually are something like: Do You mean him that was together with that singerbthat sang that hit……. Usualle we forget the first person after a while 🙂 🙂

    Also forgetting why I went in to the kitchen is a common thing 🙂 🙂
    Have a great day now!

    • katry Says:

      I love mussels! I think the ocean is terrific on a windy, rainy day.

      I never used to forget names, but age is beginning to rear its ugly head and my name retrieving skills are deteriorating. Like you, I name films they were in in hopes someone will come up with the name.

      I hate forgetting by the time I get to the kitchen.

  2. Zoey & Me Says:

    I flew to Okinawa in civies is what we called civilian clothes. Army guys weren’t popular in those days because the war wasn’t either. But YAY for the Pilot who knew he had five GI’s on board and announced our drinks were free. We were heading to a training exercise called “quick kill” and the course was one week before entering the theatre in Saigon. It was one of the most fun flights ever. I will always remember it and loved the people on board who shared their WWII and Korean war stories. How different our lives were Kat. Me going off to war and you going to teach kids in Africa.

    • katry Says:

      Our lives were so different, but we each served a cause greater than our own. I think our values are probably alike as our histories are so similar.

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