Muscle memory kicks in whenever we bend to tie a shoe, button a shirt, wipe a counter, or pour a cup of coffee. Whenever I forget one of the myriad passwords our technological world has forced upon us...I just close my eyes, place my fingers on the keyboard and they usually know where to go. Long-term memories are stored deeply within our brain and are often released like freeing a caged bird. Memories can be pleasurable or sad, comforting or frightening.
For me, sweet childhood memories of my grandfather are triggered by the feel of stiff denim, the smoothness of a felt hat, the sound of a squeaky hinge, or the pungent smell of damp clay.
My dad's dad died when I was only three, so the only grandfather I remember was my Grandpa G. He usually wore denim overalls and a felt hat. He was a man's man, but soft-spoken; I don't ever recall hearing him raise his voice in anger. I was surprised to learn he was 5 feet 11 inches since to me he seemed so much taller. Grandpa kept a bag of pecan sandies out of reach on top of their little refrigerator and would sometimes share with me. Grandma wasn't quite as free in sharing, especially her beloved Pepsis. Grandpa had a work shed behind their house on School Street in North Belmont. I doubt it ever had a coat of paint. There were tools and all kinds of mysterious items of interest to a curious little girl. It was off limits unless we were with him, and I would follow him anywhere. I remember the weathered wood, the squeaky hinge when he opened the door. But the clearest memory is the smell of musty, damp clay.
Time passed and Grandpa's health began to fail. His frequent falls made it necessary for them to move from the little house on School Street to live with my aunt and uncle. In one day my grandparents watched while everything of assumed value was divided, and decades of memories were thrown in a pile and burned. It was one of the saddest days ever.
As I said, some memories are pleasurable...and some are sad. I treasure them both. That day reminds me to hold possessions loosely. In the end, what remains are memories we create, the lives we touch, and the relationships we nurture. All the rest just ends up in a box or a pile of trash.
Charlotte Laney
Copyright 2017
Or.... subject to the demo company as I watch them disassemble my grandparents home. A different world of memories that I have of them in that old house. A wringer washer running on the back porch, biscuits baking in the kitchen or Dr. Pepper under the Catawba tree in the back yard to cool us off in the summer....just left to memories.
ReplyDeleteI am so sorry about the demolition of your grandparents' house. Thank God for memories. My childhood home and my grandparents' home have both been demolished. I guess it's true, "We can't go home again." Sad.
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