Category: Memories

I usually leave a place making plans to return. (Just ask my husband.) Boston, Halifax, Ipanema, New York City, Niagara Falls, the Rock of Gibraltar as well as lesser-known Chimney Rock, Black Mountain, and Bryson City—especially Bryson City.

The last three cities were not only the most realistic for another visit, but also the most obscure until Hurricane Helene’s devastation. Black Mountain made The Today Show. The Mayor of Asheville began to weep during her interview as she spoke of the damage to the town where she lived.

As I write this, Lake Lure is a field of debris.

I texted a friend “Thankfully, Bryson City only sustained significant damage from flooding.” Before Helene, I would not have considered “significant damage from flooding” good news.

I may never go back to the places I listed. I no longer carry the hope that they are waiting for me—as happy and well as I left them. Two friends emailed that they would pray for me as I grieved the loss.

Contemplating the memories I don’t have—and how my life might change if they existed—was recently sparked by discovering family memorabilia. (See here.)

Contemplating the memories I do have—and how my life would change if they didn’t exist—started years ago after I read a book review.

I forgot the title and author, but I never forgot the circumstances. A man lost his memory and had to continue his life with a blank slate.

What would it be like for me to lose memories—and not just any memories—but the ones I believe hinder me? Once, it seemed like something I might want to try.

What if I didn’t remember the unkindness?

What if I didn’t remember the betrayals?

What if I didn’t remember the unmet expectations?

What if I didn’t remember the failures?

And much more.

As the years have passed, I have come to a different conclusion than I had originally. I might be more successful or braver or happier without the negative memories, but I would be less.

Less kind.

Less loyal.

Less realistic.

Less encouraging.

Less helpful.

Less me.

Memories are important. But what about the ones that slipped away? After reading about unremembered family events. (See here.) I have been wondering how would I be different if those memories still existed?

Would I trust others more? Or less?

Would I trust my instincts more? Or less?

Would I take more risks? Or less?

Would I be more creative? Or less?

Would I be calmer? Or more anxious?

Would I perceive myself as dumber? Or smarter?

Would my adult hobbies be the same? Or different?

Would I have more respect for family and friends? Or less?

And many other questions.

Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.

Oscar Wilde

If Wilde is correct, my diary has gaps. Big gaps.

What do I wish I had known and am learning along the way? My perceptions—especially about myself and older family members —are inaccurate.

For days, I delved into letters and cards dating from 1923 to the early 1990s. I discovered much about people I thought I knew. For example, my mother. Boy did she have a lot of beaus in college, and I thought she was overlooked.

And my grandmother. I knew she had a quiet family wedding. Her father disapproved because she was nineteen. However, I didn’t know the marriage surprised neighbors and extended family.

While a preschooler, my sister was more creative and skilled than she remembered. Once, she pantomimed multiple musical instruments.

Of course, I learned about myself. I wish I had a video of sixteen-month-old Mollie laughing and clapping 30 minutes straight at her older sister’s birthday celebration. Or fetching her jacket later that day and saying, “Want to go.” The answer to trick or treating with her sister was “No.”

I wish I remembered three-year-old Mollie being taught whole, half, quarter, and eighth notes by her five-year-old sister. Or her four-year-old thoughts when she said, “Write Grandmommy that I’m drawing her the silliest picture.”

Unremembered childhood events feel like a lost self.