Memory is such an interesting thing. I love how you can walk into a room, smell something–say, cinnamon–and instantly flash to a hundred memories wherein that scent was a player of some sort. It might take you to Christmas, or a certain Christmas. Like the one in Germany where my parents invited some young airman over who had a few countries, plus the Atlantic ocean, between them and their families. These boys were eighteen and nineteen years old. I thought they were so mature; ancient, even. But then, I was only eleven.
Cinnamon with balsam and anise reminds me of the giant lebkuchen heart that hung on our wall as these young guys helped us act out the Christmas story on Christmas eve. They played kings, shepherds and angels, and one played a mule.
Yeah, okay. It’s a bit early to be thinking of Christmas. But that’s where cinnamon takes me. Sage takes me to Thanksgiving. And I’ve got lots of those to remember, too.
A huge portion of my Thanksgivings have been spent in Idaho, with my husband’s family. His mom and aunt are the quintessential Thanksgiving-on-a-Farm-Cooks. They do your perfect juicy turkey, stuffed with your perfect homey (and sagey) dressing, accompanied by the old marshmallow yams (although I did talk them into letting me make orange-pecan yams one year) and mounds of sour-creamed potatoes, all slathered with rich brown gravy. And, oh yeah, bowls and bowls of pickles, black olives (on fingertips, not in bowls), creamed peas from the garden, corn (also from the garden), and cranberry sauce.
And great grandma’s rolls. Sweet Mary Francis on buttered toast, great grandma’s rolls! *sigh*
Then there are pictures. They say they paint a thousand words, and they do. They also bring back feelings and memories and circumstances. This one for example:
That’s my littlest dude. He’s standing on the edge of a sulfer-pot in the middle of April up in Midway, Utah. Sort of a snowy spring last year. But I look at him, with the snow and the coat, and the little reeds in the water, all beneath the reflection of the tree, and BLAM! I am transported. And I can feel cold Maryland winter air teasing my cheeks and stinging my eyes. Finding little cracks between my sleeves and my mittens, my neck and my scarf, to send chilling fingers of wind into.
I remember the trees. How I love them! Even bare and black. Crowds of them in my forested yard, or above my German neighborhood in the clean, dark forest. And I can smell the smoke of wood fires in far off fireplaces or old stoves. See a few of autumn’s leaves that refuse to be covered in snow tossing about on the surface. It is all forlorn. And sere. And wistful. And gorgeous.
Makes me want to write something.
And I think that might be the best purpose for all of these memories. To inspire writing, creating. Use them. Cull them. Write whatever they tell you they must transform into: short story, poem, novel, screenplay. But don’t waste them. Even the hard ones have something useful in them.
And if they won’t dredge up on their own, go light a candle–cinnamon. Or thumb through photo albums, magazines, old letters. Let yourself float away in the sensory memory, and I’ll bet you come up with something grand.
Something other people will want to remember.
Voilá! Memory transformed.
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