Michael and I were talking last night about memory. He remembers everything--to a fault, and I do mean that. His memory is so good that when, on occasion, he does get a memory wrong, he takes forever--and Trump-like proof--to admit it.
He can tell me what I was wearing on occasions that I don't remember occurring. He remembers specific sights and sounds from his childhood; I do, too, but three of them, not every blessed one. Trips we took--to Williamsburg, before we were married--he can recall in quite specific detail. I remember that we went because I took some pictures, and I looked pretty good in them. I know we saw people in colonial costume because I have pictures of them, too. Michael remembers who he talked to and what the buildings smelled like.
I finally finished Elsie's book about Charlotte yesterday; I guess I've had it on my computer for a year, but I just hadn't made the time to get it read. I envy her! The details of Charlotte's gestation and first year are so vivid in that memoir that I will probably remember her babyhood better than those of my own children!
I remember being in the delivery room and watching Michael see Ben for the first time. I don't, however, remember Ben's face. The same with Jonathan. I remember talking to the anesthesiologist during the caesarian, but I don't remember what Jonathan looked like in that room. I have the newborn pictures they take at the hospital, of course, but why can't I remember the images that my mind should hold?
High school is equally obscure. I have flashes of memory: Mr. Cotton drinking a bottle of Coke as he taught us plane geometry; Mrs. Moore taping us as we read Shakespeare's Julius Caesar aloud in parts. I remember being called to the office during a pep rally only to learn that I had won the Valentine's contest in which we had to identify famous lovers by props in a display case. I know that Romeo and Juliet and Henry Higgins and Eliza Doolittle were two of the couples. I remember being in a chemistry lab.
I guess my most vivid memory is of the day President Kennedy was shot. Like so many others, I remember where I was (French class) and where we went next (biology). But what about all those other days? Kaye Wilkinson Barley (a high school classmate) wrote me yesterday that she remembered my mother putting together a taffy pull at a pajama party at my house. I don't remember ever having a pajama party--ever! I remember going to one or two, but at my house? I know my mother made taffy for us to pull several times each winter, but I don't remember actually doing it.
On the other hand, when I watch Jeopardy I often call out bits of knowledge I can't for the life of me figure out how I even know. I once correctly yelled, "Phillip the Second!" and then looked at whoever was in the room with me and said, "I didn't even know Spain had a king named Phillip."
Does my faulty memory really bother me? Only when Michael says, "Do you remember that day [40 years ago] when we did whatever?" and I have to say, "No, not really." He doesn't understand my lack of memory and I can only imagine his, especially since he vividly recalls all the sadness as well as the happy times. I can remember my mother's still face, lying on the gurney in the emergency room of the hospital. I remember saying to her, "Oh, Bertha," and crying for a few minutes. The next thing I remember is talking at her service and keeping the congregation in stitches with stories of her. Michael remembers every minute of the time he spent with his mother in her last days in the nursing home, when she was already gone, to all intents and purposes. He relives the feelings of impending loss, the loss itself, and how much at sea he felt after her death. He feels those feelings again and again. I don't, and I'm glad I don't have to.
I'll content myself, then, with pictures of my precious babies. That's probably why I'm so optimistic and even-tempered. I don't remember anything really bad, so I always expect life to be good. And for me, it is.
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