A Trip Down Memory Lane

by Anna Burich

“How much of your life can you remember?” I asked my husband as we drove down Interstate 29 on the way to my parents’ house.

“What specific life events are you asking about?” He responded.

“I guess I am asking if you remember any unique experiences or events, something that is not connected to the typical memories of birthdays, holidays, family traditions, or vacations. Like the small things that are just about you. The times you were just you, by yourself,” I clarified. I could tell he was thinking about it, and I waited for his response in silence.

“I wish I remembered more than I do,” he finally replied. “You know how you experienced things as a kid and at that moment, you thought it was such a big deal? You thought it would be significant in your future and now you don’t remember half of those moments. They helped to develop your character and personality, yet you are unable to recall the details as to how.”

I initiated this line of questioning after reading a passage from the book, A Million Miles in A Thousand Years by Donald Miller. My husband and I had just started reading his books again, and I would read aloud whenever we went on a road trip together. The author starts his first chapter with this overwhelming realization: “The saddest thing about life is you don’t remember half of it. You don’t even remember half of half of it. Not even a tiny percentage, if you want to know the truth. I have this friend Bob who writes down everything he remembers. If he remembers dropping an ice cream cone on his lap when he was seven, he’ll write it down. Last time I talked to Bob, he had written more than 500 pages of memories. He’s the only guy I know who remembers his life. He said he captures memories because if he forgets them, it's as though they didn't happen; it’s as though he hadn’t lived the parts he doesn’t remember. I thought about that when he said it, and I tried to remember something.”

This short paragraph challenged me, and I too tried to remember. I thought about my childhood home, the place we were currently traveling to. I remembered how when I was twelve, I created a small “time machine” out of a tiny, wooden chest which I filled with a locket, a picture of me and my best friend, a glass bead, a note describing myself and who I was, and a random antique key which I had never been able to match with a lock. I took my time machine down the road to our neighbor’s creek and found a soft spot of soil above the flow of the cool water. With a small garden trowel, I dug a hole, placing first a flat rock at the bottom, then the chest with another rock on top. In preparation for this monumental occasion, earlier that day I had retrieved a wild, marsh marigold plant from the water’s edge, and this was placed atop the rocks and chest; loose soil was gently placed to fill any remaining space in the hole. I think I said some special words over the burial ground, and I even wrote a witty poem of clues on how to find the time capsule. Try as I might, I cannot remember the poem. The time capsule stayed in the ground for the duration of two weeks before I had to dig it up and get back my locket. I guess my attempt at preserving my childhood was inconsequential compared to my attachment to that locket. Funny thing is, I have no recollection of where that locket ended up.

Shortly after my thoughtful trip down memory lane, we arrived at my childhood home, and another wave of nostalgia hit me as I walked through the rooms where I grew up. The reason for my visit was because of a recent, major life change. I had gotten married a month before this drive and now I had come to collect some of the personal belongings that were left in my parents’ attic. I sat in my sister’s bedroom, opening box after box, time capsule after time capsule, and the trip down memory lane continued, this time accompanied by my sisters. As we reminisced there were moments of laughter, regret, sadness, shock, relief, confession, and denial. The good, the bad, the sweet, and the ugly were all spread out on the floor, the bed, and the couch in the form of papers, unfinished art projects, old clothes, childhood toys, books, and a collection of odds and ends. We talked until the sun went down, story after story. I left with a portion of the boxes filled with a few prized possessions I couldn’t bare to part with just yet.

My husband gave me a look as we got into the car to leave, and I thanked him for his patience. I had told him we were making a quick stop to grab the items and it had not been a quick stop. He replied to my appreciation with a soft smile.

“You were very excited and happy to relive so many memories. I understand and I am happy you had this opportunity. I was just not prepared to stay so late, but I know this meant a lot to you,” he squeezed my hand as we pulled out of my parents’ driveway.

I sat there in the passenger seat on the ride home realizing I wanted to remember that memory of my attempted childhood time capsule forever. I wanted to remember the stories my sisters and I had just spent hours reliving. But would I always remember? I have no guarantee that I will always have a healthy, sharp mind as I age. At that moment, I decided I wanted to start writing my memories down. Like Bob, I too needed to capture the memories so I could know that they happened. Writing memories down is one way to capture the past Reading and reminiscing on the random thoughts and adventures of a younger me has given me a new perspective on life. How much of your life do you remember? What would your walk down memory lane look like? Try it sometime. I encourage you to; when we reflect on our past it gives us context and insight into our present and future.