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How I Forget to Remember

By Sarah Stodola

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I have lately been hearing many stories of childhood from people my own age; mostly happy stories, but some not-so-happy ones, as well. It must be true that in general we like to remember the good things better than the bad. Either way, though, it’s clear that all of these stories are close to their tellers’ hearts. They are important stories, stories in which one may find a basis of, or reason for, the tellers’ adult persona; these were the moments and events that turned my peers into the people they are today.

These stories have naturally lead me to ponder my own childhood memories, and I have begun to realize that I don’t really ever think about my childhood. Where it seems most people incorporate their childhood selves into their current existence - they truly believe that the latter was born out of the former - I am the opposite.  I don’t feel a connection to my childhood self. I remember my childhood as if I am remembering a story I once heard about someone else.

There are all kinds of potential implications here: that I had a rough childhood and wish I weren’t connected to it (not true), that I simply don’t understand myself well enough to see the connection to my childhood (hopefully not true), that the fact that I really don’t like children all that much causes me to willfully forget that I myself was one of the annoying little buggers once (hmm…), that I had an easy child and have no issues to dwell upon (that could be it). But really, to me it just seems that childhood was such a very long time ago, and I have learned so much since then, and I am more interested in the more evolved me than I am in the me who knew nothing. Why bother with my childhood when its replacement has so much more to offer?

A few days ago, I willfully conjured a memory of my childhood - at first just to see if I could - that had been long forgotten. It’s a memory of the creek that used to run through the field behind my house. My thoughts began with the memory that there were rocks laying in the creek that served perfectly as stepping stones to reach the other side, where my best friend Suzanne lived (and had a trampoline and Nintendo - it was highly important to be able to get across that creek). I chuckled at the memory because as a child it never occurred to me that those stepping stones had been placed there intentionally. I used to just marvel at the fact that nature had put those stones so conveniently in place for me.

When it rained heavily, the creek would overflow and turn the field into a pond. During these times, the familiar scenery of my neighborhood was reinvented. I lived by a lake instead of a creek! What excitement! There were even rapids. Children were warned to keep their distance.

On a couple of occasions a friend and I (a different friend each time, actually) decided to hike the creek, once to find its origin and once its final resting spot; a rowdy and untamed adventure for a suburban kid if ever there was one.  I don't remember where the creek ended, but I do remember that in a stranger's backyard, it went underground.

I knew exactly which children lived along the creek. Sara N., who was born on leap day exactly four years before her little brother, who was also born on leap day, had a huge swing that hung from the sturdy branches of one of the trees lining the creek.  Suzanne had the trampoline, Robbie was two years older. We played Spin the Bottle with Mark and his friends when they would come over.  Rebecca was one year older and therefore very cool indeed. 

Further down, the best sledding hill for miles around caused yearly concerns on the part of parents - especially after the one year that a child finally did sled right into the freezing creek at the bottom of the hill. Sara N. had a fort in the bushes next to the creek. But so did my next door neighbors the Kegs (who were devout Mourmons - the humor in their last name compared to the kind of life they lived was also lost on me right up until the present moment).

My memories surrounding this creek are, it would seem, classic childhood remembrances. But I had to force them to the forefront of my brain. Today, I’m an over-educated and wary realist with no delusions about how simple and easy and generally carefree the world once was. When I think of this whole creek memory, I suppose I do feel mildly sentimental, but I don’t feel like I am remembering my roots, or that this was a magical time in life, or that I wish I could go back to it. I guess I just feel like I became the person I am today long after the creek days had been laid to rest. The creek days were precursor, prehistory, previous; almost literally a different lifetime.

I’m not sure what kind of person I’d be if I did embrace my childhood memories as so many others seem to do. Perhaps no different at all. Perhaps everyone is at times stuck thinking about something besides the present.  Only with me, I have more fun inventing possibilities for the future than I do reminiscing about a quaint but rather uneventful past.  Even as a child, I couldn't wait for the big things that would surely happen to me someday.  That, I remember.

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Sarah Stodola is the Managing Editor of Me Three.  She can be contacted at [email protected].

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