A Brief (haha) Dissertation on Memories

As I prepare to leave forever my first adult home, the home which became that of my own family apart from the one I grew up in, I find myself unable to sleep and my mind awash with thoughts of the past as I prepare to embark upon a journey into the unknown future. It began with a simple memory from long ago that surfaced for reasons I could not then comprehend. The first day of kindergarten when my best friend and I got put on the wrong bus home. Parts of the memory are very clear to me. I remember very clearly standing out on that wet street in the brisk early morning with my mother crouched down beside me, pointing at the big black numbers on the bus and telling me to be Very sure to ride the same bus with the same number at the end of the day, because it would bring me home. I remember standing in line in my classroom while they checked a list and pinned yellow construction paper bus shapes with numbers written on them to all the kindergarteners. I remember they gave me one with the wrong number and I told them so. And of course they didn't believe me. Mine should have been 33, but they gave me a different one instead. I remember waiting in another line outside on the playground as the busses came in with my best friend Jessica Jackson who lived two houses down from me, and I remember that a big 6th grader squished into the seat beside us and I was up against the window for most of the ride. I remember sitting on the right side of the bus, side by side with Jessica, watching out the window as it traveled toward my house. It stopped at the corner of 164th and Snohomish Ave, pausing longer than necessary to make the turn to take us home. I looked at the bus driver, wondering what was taking so long and I saw her staring back at us in her wide 'mischief viewing' mirror. Now I know exactly what was going through her mind "Dear lord, I'm at the end of my route and I here have two kindergarteners who don't know where their stop was, I wonder how far back I'll have to go?" At the time I had full faith in this adult in whose care I had been placed, however erroneously it might've been done. But she asked us kindly, "Did you two miss your stop?" And I remember, quite clearly, telling her "Nope, you haven't gotten there yet." At that point the memory becomes more like an old timey movie but I remember moving up to sit on the left in the seat right behind the bus driver to give her directions to our bus stop, which was only a few blocks away, and I remember Jessica wailing about how she was going to die and that she was never going to see her mommy again. I remember thinking it was kind of distracting and unneccesary. I know what you're thinking, and its okay, I have come to terms with the fact that I was an unusual, if helpful, child. A few minutes later we arrived at our stop, which we indeed had not yet reached, and not enough time had passed for my mother to assault the elementary school and beat down their doors insisting on being informed as to the whereabouts of her child. Which, if you know my mother, is exactly what would have occurred had an inordinate amount of time passed before our arrival.

A rather unusual memory to have surface out of the nether on the eve of moving out of a house, but then it was followed by two other, equally unmomentous memories. One a brief flash of spending the afternoon at Nick Seitz's house, climbing little crab apple trees in his backyard and eating piping hot Spaghetti-O's with his mom and little brother at their kitchen table. This memory is warm and cozy, suffused with kindliness and comraderie, a flagship reminiscent of the many afternoons spent in their company over the years as we grew. Following that is another elementary memory, equally strong, of the simple act of playing tag at recess. Two individuals figure strongly though I know at least a dozen of us were racing around the school yard. Nick Seitz and Lauren Childers. I was 'IT' and I remember most clearly the tactics involved in Tag between the three of us. Nick was a master of the pivot turn, I would charge toward him and he'd just stand there, grinning ear to ear under that mop of red hair, then when I was an arm's length away he would spin out of my path and dart off in another direction. Lauren on the other hand just never stopped running, he'd be way out somewhere on the soccer field or looping around the buildings and I'd always manage to catch him with a quick sprint. I find it fascinating that when high school rolled around Nick was playing basketball and Lauren and I were both on the Track team, myself a sprinter while he ran long distance. I periodically ponder whether instinct or inclination played a larger role in those patterns which appeared so innocently in early life and strengthened into meaningful pursuits in later years.

Then a conversation in college at a lunch table in the dining hall. There is a girl in my building whom I had never met before but she and I rapidly became fast friends, and that day her ears perked up at the chance mention of a name, 'Jessica Jackson.' It turns out that for a single year she attended the same elementary school as I did, and during that year she was good friends with a girl named Jessica Jackson, who's mother called mine asking if Jessica could bring a friend to my birthday party. The first time Rebecca visited my house my mother took one look at her and went into the office where she miraculously produced a photograph taken at that birthday party, and lo and behold, in it Rebecca is sitting in my house next to me and my friends on the bricks in front of the fireplace. I find it somewhat ironic that my first best friend ever introduced me to my best friend from college at a time long before I knew that would ever be the case or if we would even cross paths again in the then distant and mysterious future.

The surfacing of these memories, all of decidedly unmomentous occasions was of great interest to my restless mind which refused to sleep. Why should these be the memories which surfaced now in this time of stress and sleeplessness? This musing led to other surfacings, Scott Pratschner, another friend from college, visiting at my folks' place in the summer, he and I playing with Legos with great enthusiasm and eating spaghetti which he insisted several times, despite my mother's protests, was the best he'd ever tasted. I dug out my favorite set for us, it was a big tropical island with a wizard and a dragon and knights guarding a treasure. Again this memory is suffused with contentment, sunshine coming through the sliding glass door and my mother shaking her head at us from the kitchen, no doubt wondering why her collegiate daughter was playing with toys on the floor like a child and how she had convinced another college student to join her. And another friend ringing my parents' doorbell in college, brick-like in build and heavily tattooed with a wide kindly grin and a sheepish expression which I later learned had as much to do with his surprise that my parents had welcomed him into their house as it did with his demeanor. He brought with him big red boxing gloves and we spent a lively afternoon in the backyard pummeling each other with them. Well.. mostly me pummeling him, he moved his gloves toward me periodically, but not with any intention of actually connecting, which considering our disparate masses I heartily appreciated. I invented my own maneuver that day on my parents' back lawn, its called the 'Flying Lion Hammer Strike' and its devestatingly effective. Or would be if I remembered exactly how to do it and was actually boxing against a realistic opponent. Again, the sun was shining, filtering through the evergreens in the late afternoon and the yard was ringing with laughter at the ridiculousness of our antics. I'm sure my mother was shaking her head at us again, but I'm used to that by now.

Here my musings are interrupted by the fact that I'm mentally reviewing them while they're bubbling forth, interrupting the flow and aware of that fact, lamenting it for posterity's sake but unable to refrain. Why the memory of the bus, my best friend from forever ago whom I haven't seen or heard from in years? Ah, but I did just find her on Facebook and added her as a friend so I see posts from her now and then, but as with so many I have found there I am reluctant to reforge a connection. The paralyzing shyness I had as a child resurfaces in the oddest instances. What would be more natural than exclaiming to a friend how cool it is that you found them again? What's so hard about simply saying "Hello" and reopening the lines of communication? Ah but the guilt and the self-castigation.. "Why did I let it go this long?" "What if we haven't talked because they don't want to talk to me?" "Won't they be upset that I never looked for them before? That I haven't thought about them in all this time? That so much of my life and theirs have passed and I never bothered to include them?" All reminders of a truth I learned about myself long ago. I am great at making new friends, at forging bonds with people I see on a day to day and week to week basis. But when it comes to maintaining contacts at any distance which is reliant upon non face to face communication I am terrible. Those who know me and remain my friend understand this as well. The telephone is not my friend. If I cross paths with someone I know on the street it is perfectly acceptable to stop and chat and catch up. But I am forever convinced that to call someone without a legitimate reason would be to intrude upon them, interrupting their life and that most people would be displeased to receive it. I have tried without success to convince myself that this notion is both ridiculous and patently untrue, but even the unrestrained glee voiced by those I manage to convince myself that I have a suitably "legitemate" reason to call has failed to dent my erroneous resolve.

I love this house. I'm going to miss this house. I loved it from the first moment I stepped inside and felt like I was walking into a space my grandparents had built just for me, complete with handyman nooks and a jerry-rigged shed built primarily out of firewood stacked between trees that had all been sheared off at the same height with a roof perched on top of them. We didn't know what we were looking for when we started looking for a house, but when we saw this one we both knew this was it. I was five months pregnant when we moved in and it shortly became not only "the house my grandparents built just for me" but also "the house I had my babies in." I was never one of those girls who daydreamed about getting married and having babies, for me they just came about naturally as part of the course of events of my life. But now this is the only home Marcella has ever known and at not quite two months old its a home Aurora will never get the chance to know, and that makes me sad. Dana and I have both enjoyed living in Alaska immensely and if not for the present lack of teleporter technology we would have strongly considered staying here. None of us want to leave this house but it is an impending reality. We cannot stay here in this house and we cannot afford to keep it either.

In three day's time I leave behind forever a building which has had a significant impact on my life, one which has provided for me something I desperately needed in the absence of my friends and family and the comforts of my childhood home. Sunshine through a kitchen window and the sounds of a child at play. I do not have the full measure of the voices I have missed, not the wamth of their presences and personalities, but I have felt connected to the past and the people I left behind. Now once more I make the journey to a new and unknown place but I fear I will not be so fortunate as to find a place like this again, a space I can truly call a home. And that is where my restlessness derives, this house has been my lifeline as the friends we made all moved away taking new posts elsewhere as we now must do, only I did not realize it until these last days were upon me and my brain became steeped in potent, seemingly unimportant memories.

Why the bus? It came to mind again, the first ride home from kindergarten and another ride, this one on a stormy day, so violent that they closed the middle school at midday and bused everyone home. Only the bus, once more, could not deliver us. It stopped just past that same intersection and could go no further because of the huge evergreen trunks that had crashed across the road, dangling broken powerlines intermingled. The whole mess created a sort of hanging obstacle course across the street, heavy with the scent of evergreen and fresh rain. Over a dozen of us were let off to wend our way home as best we could, some with miles to slog after they picked their way through the dangerous tangle. I remember leading several through what I considered 'the path of least danger,' having carefully noted the location of the lines and avoided those areas completely. Some might consider that a slightly more momentous memory, but to me it is merely calm and interesting to reflect upon. The reflection of the memory of reflecting on the memory (stay with me here) was especially interesting to note.

I am a muser and a ponderer by nature. I am far more attracted to ideas and notions, ironies and coincidences than I am by fact and regulated information. My memory and my sense of time or celebrated lack thereof are, I believe, constructs of my nature. Despite what is widely considered to be the gross inaccuracy of my memory, I feel it has been so structured to enable it to better house the information of most interest to me, which has nothing whatsoever to do with order and reason, but everything to do with wondering about my essential nature and the world around me, capturing moments rather than timelines in the interests of preserving something unusual for later perusal without fear of the natural decay of time. Among the topics of interest are people as a whole, how they grow and change, things that make similar people different and how dissimilar people can grow to become more the same. My favorite case study, by nature of familiarity, is the one I have had under longest observation.. Myself.

Which brings us back around to the reason I canot sleep tonight and why I have chosen to write this lengthy composition instead of simply tossing and turning until sheer fatigue took over. In short, my memory is terrible and I mused over something interesting, something I did not wish to lose in the fog of sleep, if and when it came. I do not remember which lettered personality type I am supposed to be, but I know for sure its not 'A-type.' I also remember deciding in middle school when we were learning about such things that I was essentially a sheep, but a leader among sheep. Too shy to assume a role of leadership unless it became painfully clear that nobody else was bold enough to do so, in which case it was safe to put myself forward as well as a relief to finally get the show rolling. That memory too surfaced amidst my collection of benign cozy tidbits and it was the one which provided the unifying factor the others all shared. No, they were not momentous memories, not of pivotal points in my life, nor of great changes, but in fact they were pieces of times in my life when nothing was changing and everything felt as it should be, but also indicative of what I believe to be my true self. Calm, warm, content with simplicity. Sunshine through a window, shared laughter and a family meal. But also confident and dependable when needed, not out of bravado or a desire to be the hero, but because it is the natural thing to do and the times when I have been able to provide that are strong fond memories.

This sudden evaluation of self on the eve of a journey which has weighed me down with such a feeling of finality these last few days was unexpected to say the least, but reassurring. I will miss this house dearly and while I have done everything I can to ease the transition for Marcella she has been feeling the strain of the mounting tensions and I think seeing the house emptied of all our things will undo her. And I do not envy Dana a week of empty house and military run-around, but for them to survive they must have someone solid to lean on, and before tonight I was not in much better shape than they are. I am not looking forward to the move, but I think deep down I realized tonight as I attempted to drift off to sleep that I do not have the luxury of instability right now and that my subconscious felt the need to remind me that I have all the strength I need for this, I just have to remind myself from time to time.

After all, I do have a pretty terrible memory.

Yes, I really mean it.

I realize that some may find the name of my blog to be a misrepresentation should they actually find blog entries beneath it, in that interest I would like to briefly explore the purpose of a seemingly contrary label and its meaning for me.

There is no shortage of Opinions on the internet, in truth one can find a plethora of resolute assertions on any number of subjects. I, however, often feel myself to be without opinions, though that as well is not entirely true. I am chock full of leanings and assumptions, impressions and 'feelings' about one subject or another, but in the company of those who are convinced of something beyond a shadow of a doubt I find myself feeling very much alone and all too uninformed. In the face of a barrage of random facts, quotes and favorite anecdotal evidence, my 'feelings' and 'impressions' are brushed aside. For while their relevance to me is key, others are unable to pair such notions with their lovingly gathered statistics, and I too am brushed aside as irrelevant.

What is a blog? As a rule, it is a place for opinions. But also musings, quips and amusing items stumbled upon during one's day. But there is the audience to consider, for a blog is directed at others, dairies are for personal musings, journals for the scribing of the day-to-day in order to preserve it for one's self. The internet is a forum for personal advertisement.

In some venues the audience can be controlled, but unlike other ways to communicate using the technology of the internet, a blog is the equivalent of a personal podium or soap box, depending on one's personal bent, and as I have learned all too often that most of my leanings on popular subjects of discussion pose no interest to others, I feel I have no use for a soap box, and even less desire to project what opinions I have at others.

However, as you may note, I have no shortage of Observations, nor in truth, ways in which to describe them to others. And while I may be uncertain as to whether such observations may interest others I feel I have spent too much time hidden away in my corner of the world reading about what others are up to without sharing some part of myself in return.

Therefore the warning: No Promises. I don't Blog..

While my sister may consider that an exceptionally pessimistic title I feel it is singularly fitting. I make no promises, for I have never been in the practice of keeping either a diary, journal, or broadcasting my views in any format. Without such a habit my flighty memory is unlikely to remember this blog exists on anything resembling a frequent basis. However, I do wish to convey a part of myself here, in part as a way for those I have left behind to be reminded who I am, and in part to remind myself that I am not as alone as I often feel myself to be.