Snippets of Memory

I have so many little snippets of memory from childhood tucked away in the dusty corners of my mind, as I’m sure we all do, and I find taking them out every now and then to be comforting.

 

I remember going for a walk with my cousin, claiming little sticks as our boats to race in the gutters as the weather warmed and the snow began to melt in earnest. I remember the town’s old tan street sweeper, and being so excited to watch it come by in the spring.

I remember the hang glider who’d occasionally show up in the sky, and of the day in December when my mom painstakingly made a veggie tray that looked like a Christmas tree because it was my turn to provide the preschool snack, only to have the kids devour the carrot stick trunk, and not really want to try the broccoli that made up the bulk of the tree. 

 

I remember going for Chinese food at Fuk and Muna’s and jealously watching my Grampa head through the swinging half-door into the secret world of the kitchen to visit with Fuk and read his mail. I remember discovering my love for baby corn and Cantonese Chow Mein, and the time my Grampa showed up at supper with a harmonica just for me, but that I was soon banned from playing it in public (it’s safe to assume this was to the immense relief of our fellow diners).

 

I remember going to the hospital when my brothers were born and eating most of my mom’s lunch. I remember sitting in the back seat of my Grama’s red Topaz in the hospital parking lot and being more excited about the prospect of Dairy Queen than about my new brothers (I did come around eventually though).

 

I remember the old water bed downstairs with the bright orange blanket, and of begrudgingly letting mom flip my hair under with the curling iron after my bath. I remember when our TV cut out during a flash flood, and sitting at the table with a bowl of lunch watching and listening to the torrential downpour.

 

I remember one incident when we were planning to head out to the farm for a visit, but Grama called to say she had a mouse in the house. That meant, of course, that there was no way in hell my mom would take us anywhere near a house with a mouse, so I have a beautifully hazy memory of laying on the floor in our entry, dressed up in my winter coat and snow pants, mitts, toque, and boots – listening to my her talk on the phone – and feeling sweaty, sad, and terribly disappointed about the whole thing.

 

And it makes me wonder: what snippets will my son remember?

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: