A soft summer breeze carried faint birdsong and the distant hum of life to the serene rural yard. Lush grass, a colorful garden and sturdy oaks surrounded the prominent white farmhouse that seemed to sigh with delight as the midmorning sun crept up its side like a gentle lover. While dancing daisies and orange daylilies swayed in the wind, a mellow windchime dangled its tune from the front porch. The bustle inside the house was now underway, but the earth had been awake for hours. Anticipation of the day hung in the air like an orchestra tuning up. It could have been Sunday morning.
As carefree as the languid summer day, a wobbling toddler in her light blue cotton dress and white Stride Rite shoes bubbled her own language in the garden as she reached for the happy yellow flower that caught her eye. Without guilt or a second thought, she snatched the petals and giggled with delight before turning her sunlit curly blond head and angelic face to her doting guardian. The drifting clouds seemed to smile with approval from their field of blue.
Ten feet away, the gentle man wearing brown dress slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, watched the youngster with loving interest as he squatted to her level. Smiling like Mona Lisa, he called softly as she initiated her baby walk toward him. With outstretched arms ready to catch her, his warm smile broadened wide enough to melt the heart as she attempted to run and laugh at the same time. Trusting, happy and living in the moment with the yellow petals clutched in her fist, she fell into his embrace with a sigh. The man could have been her father or uncle.
Seventy years later, I often relive my first childhood memory with the same warm smile and joy as that moment in the garden. With an elder eye, however, I wonder if the scene was a true memory or just a dream. Pondering the question, I always conclude that it was real since I spent my toddler years on a relative’s Wisconsin farm before returning to my birthplace in New England. The scene could have happened. Whenever I contemplate my beginning…and end…I recall my delightful first memory with gratitude, realizing that not all first memories are happy ones. Some are tragic, shocking even, and yet, disturbingly deliberate.
Media images of toddlers at our immigration border facilities screaming in anguish as they are snatched from their sobbing mothers’ arms present a contrasting first memory to my own. There are no sunny gardens filled with yellow petals on a quiet Sunday morning for these babes. As a mother, my heart breaks for the parent. As a former toddler, my tears swell for these children who must endure such a rocky start. Even with political attempts to rectify the damage of long-term separation, only the human brain’s resilience can soften the blow of these horrifying first memories that are reminiscent of hearts yanked apart on slave plantations or ripped in two at Auschwitz. Indeed, for one reason or another, generations of children have begun life without loving arms to catch them.
Memory is a hot topic among my senior peers who recount endless stories of lost names, lost keys, and lost reasons for entering a room. Miraculously, however, we all seem to remember old song lyrics, poignant moments from childhood, and hometown landmarks here or long-gone. While vivid memories of happiness and laughter soothe our sorrows, inevitably, painful ones become bitter pills that define our unique lives. Holding onto, retrieving and even blocking memories have become paramount as I join my elder comrades around the coffee klatch.
While we joke about the possibility of contracting Alzheimer’s disease or any dementia that can wipe our slates clean, the unspoken fear around the table elicits silent prayers of gratitude for any degree of memory that remains. All my compatriots have been touched by loved ones living in physical shells as Alzheimer’s erases the brain. As if grasping for wisps of smoke, holding onto our memories has become synonymous with holding onto oneself. “Preserve your memories, they’re all that’s left you,” a line from Simon and Garfunkel, prompts me to value all my remembrances like treasured gems. Even the negative memories have some redeeming purpose.
Inevitably, my early years on life’s road were not always smooth. At the age of five, I remember walking to school by myself each day as expected in my generation. The older suburban sidewalk from my first-floor Victorian tenement to the local elementary school was no more than half a mile, but the route included a hill that terrified me. With a small frame, skinny arms and nimble legs, I could sail up the street without a thought. It wasn’t the street I feared, it was reaching the top of the hill where the terror I dreaded each day awaited me.
There I would meet a small group of older kids on the crest of the sidewalk who couldn’t wait to taunt a weaker target passing by…namely, me. Feeling like little Red Riding Hood, I approached the bully wolves slowly, knowing they would hurl nasty insults or spit, pull my hair, block my way or push me off the curb without cause. As a victim, I felt defenseless, terrified, and sad. But it never occurred to me to cross the street.
Like the fighter Rocky, I endured this treatment for what seemed, in my young mind, like an eternity until the scenario came to the attention of my parents. From then on, my loving father walked me to school, holding my small hand in his rough but tender palm. With a new sense of relief and adoration for the man who was my protector, I passed the bullies with a contented smile on my face as I watched them disperse. Whether they ever regrouped I’ll never know. What I do remember is that my protection disappeared when my parents divorced a year later.
By the world’s standards, my splintered family was not the worst that could have happened and the scattered snapshots of that chapter in my life cannot compare to others’ horrifying recollections that keep them awake at night. My father standing on the doorstep with a suitcase, glimpses of tears shed, and moving to Nana’s house are not earthshattering events to anyone else. But my stressful memories known as proverbial “baggage” define me and, like puzzle pieces, provide understanding at this stage in my life while I attempt to make sense of things.
When my parents miraculously reunited in love thirty years after the divorce, I felt as if my childhood protection had returned. Knowing where that feeling came from brings some peace to my existence and helps me connect the dots. Whether I like it or not, my negative experiences are part of life and who I am. While tempted to erase those memories completely, I’ve decided to contemplate at least some of them with a degree of sagacity as I gaze upon my backyard garden in retirement bliss. Like we tend to do at New Year’s or on a birthday, evaluating the beginning and end provides perspective and, hopefully, understanding about the journey’s purpose. Still, the question remains, is there any value to keeping our painful memories?
As a Boston College graduate school alumna, I receive their well-written periodical and relish the interesting articles I find. A recent article piqued my interest about a brilliant BC grad whose research could alter the outcome of Alzheimer’s disease or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Retrieving memories or eradicating the painful ones seems to be within research’s grasp. At least the excitement emanating from the pages suggests such a thing. Stimulating weak neural connections or blocking others can offer life-changing relief to thousands who claw for a better life. For the average retiree, however, the difficult steps in life can provide comforting answers about strained relationships, challenging lessons for improving behavior and empathy for others as we scramble to find peace and love before reaching the end of the line. Despite the research, I will embrace my negative memories like unsavory tenants who, nonetheless, continue to pay the rent.
A dear friend once described her memory of annual family road trips to a relative’s home on Cape Cod. To her and her siblings, the three-hour drive seemed endless. Every so often, they would ask the exhausted adults, “Are we closer to home or closer to Aunt Esther’s?” At this stage in my life, when I’m closer to Aunt Esther’s, I feel compelled to examine the beginning and the end with all the joy and pain that has entwined to form my sphere of life. While the unknown spirit world lies ahead, my greatest hope when I die is that my last memory will resemble my first when I’ll run and collapse into the arms of love, whoever or whatever that may be.
Linda Skibski is the author of the memoir, Forever, Joanne: A Story of Love, Loss, and Leaps of Faith, Stillwater River Publications (2021).
© 2021 Linda Skibski
Linda Skibski 