Writing About Memories

We were driving back roads in my old neighborhood this week. I noticed changes like new siding on a farmhouse, and is that a new fence? To me, neighbor Paul’s house will always be red brick. It’s amazing how different things look when you’re forty-nine and driving a car versus nine and riding a bike.

Memories can fascinate and frustrate. Sometimes I feel like I can’t trust my own memories. They play hide and seek or swim like fish just below the surface as I watch thinking, “Someday I’ll catch you and have a fish fry.” I want to examine each memory and write about it. But life keeps happening and more memories pile on top of the old ones. Not erasing them but pushing them back and back into the hazy mists with the antique furniture.

But the thing about stories and memories and telling stories is that they didn’t start with me. I’m not sure where my story starts. Did it start with my mother, my grandmothers, and my great grandmothers and the stories they chose to tell or not tell? What are the stories I tell my daughters and granddaughter?

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I remember as a child wishing I would know things. My Mom knew things. How did she know when I was hiding out in my room reading a book instead of gathering eggs? How did she know when I had crawled up into the maple tree instead of bringing in laundry?

Or like my dad who could predict when it was going to rain. Somehow, he just knew. As a farmer for years before weather apps and radar storm tracking, he honed this skill by watching the sky and which direction the weathervane pointed. It was important to mow hay on just the right day. Rain meant ruin when it landed on cut hay.

I remember thinking, “I can’t wait till I know things, and no one needs to boss me around all the time.” But with knowing comes responsibility- knowing when to speak up and when to keep my peace. Growing older makes me realize how little I actually know. Precious little when we talk about galaxies, and the deeper things about life.

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It’s been a year since I took a deep breath and timidly clicked publish. This year of remembering and telling my story has been stretching. It takes a certain amount of vulnerability and courage. It’s a search for words, to express the feelings and memories from childhood. Words that go backwards and forward in time exploring the sequence of events and how they shaped who I am.

Who am I? And what am I supposed to say? How can I use my voice? How can I say anything that makes a difference?

Where have I been? Why am I here? Is there a reason for tears and heartache, joy and hope? Is there healing to be found?

And sometimes the echo. . . “I don’t know…. I don’t know…. I don’t know….”

It helps to face the questions but not let them overwhelm and remember that God is “The Author.”

I’m grateful for the encouraging words that have come my way in the past year. Thank you for reading! More memories coming soon!