When you are a writer, it is a huge advantage to have an extensive and crystal-clear memory. Imagine. An incredible, invaluable resource right there at your finger tips.
Unfortunately, I have come to realize that memory is elusive concept for me. There are blank pages, fuzzy maybes, holes and vacant expanses. Sometimes, if jogged by an old friend’s story or a daughter’s anecdote about growing up, I can unearth a rusty nugget or two. But most of the time there is a deficit. And I feel badly about it.
I read somewhere that we need to be surrounded by friends and family to reinforce the stories of our lives. This made me sit up and take notice. Aha! I grew up moving every two years as an army brat. Maybe that’s why my memory is so horrible. I didn’t have an extended family around to keep the memories alive. That explains it!
This theory works until my husband, who moved more frequently than I did growing up, recites his phone number when he was in grade one in Hickson, Ontario.
So maybe it has to do with capacity. If I don’t use something or see someone regularly, it/they get erased. Even their faces draw a blank! There is apparently only so much room in the noggin of Norene.
I guess I will have to continue to resort to making things up, dodgy details, subterfuge and baldfaced lies.