memories

Scent is supposedly the strongest sense tied to memory.  I've always just thought that's just what "they" say because scent and sense are only 2 letters apart.  I guess "they" are right.  I can't think of any memory that isn't tied to a scent.  The smell of chocolate cookies fresh out of the oven takes me directly back to early Decembers of my childhood when my mom would feverishly make batch upon batch of cookies for family, friends, and classmates.  The distinct smell of an old book that hasn't been opened in years catapults me to my elementary school library - not perusing the hardback titles - but walking through it to my 4th or 5th grade classroom.  Only the upperclassmen were lucky enough to pass the thousand tales of fiction and non on their way to upper classes.  The stinging stink of vodka that still rewinds me to my senior year of high school and the feigned bravery as I downed drinks to prove to others that I, too, could get the fuck down with the rest of them.

The strongest scent linked to any of my memories is that of campfire.  The smell instantly recalls the rest of my senses.  That rich, unfolding scent of wood's layers combusting is absolutely, inextricably linked to the summers of my childhood.  The recollection is enhanced by the sound of timber crackling and the sight of the sky moments before the sun retreats for a few hours.  The taste of the smores somehow lingers in the back of my mouth, as I think of how we would cook with concentrated childhood dedication, always resulting in burnt marshmellows or sloppily placed Hershey's bars.

When life calls on us to remember these moments inorganically - without the benefit of sense - how do we do it?  How do we bring forth the authenticity of a memory without our senses to guide us?

My grandfather is dying.  This is nothing new to me.  In fact, I've known this for the better part of a year.  The more I think about it, the more I consider the consequences of no longer having that source of knowledge and wisdom in my life, and the more I consider not utilizing that knowledge and that wisdom while it was still available to me.  This will be the death of my last living grandparent and the marking of a turning point in my life.  More than any of that, and granted, that is a lot, is the idea that memories are not necessarily forever.

I have been lucky to know all of my grandparents on a certain level and learn certain things from them.  I have been able to study their idiosyncrasies and try to pinpoint similarities between them and my parents... and even myself.  My grandmother on my dad's side, with a wicked sense of humor and a riotous laugh, taught me while playing cards to "get the kids off the street."  His father told me time and time again, in the vein of Eeyore, "thanks for noticing me."  My grandmother on my mom's side taught me the importance of social grace and manners, and my grandfather, currently on his way, gave me my sense of humor and appreciation for practical jokes.

In his final months, my grandfather has been robbed of his memory.  On a certain level, I've always been obsessed with remembering - which may be why I've chosen to write about my life in blogs and online journals.  I've always felt like if I don't remember it, who will?

My grandfather, at this stage, can't remember.  But I can.  What I remember are the summers of my childhood: perpetually looking forward to the trips up north to Pennsylvania where we would see all of my cousins and spend days with my grandparents at the camp where they spent their summers.  We would go out on the lake, fish, ride in innertubes, and cause whatever kind of trouble we could before returning back to camp for dinner.  I learned to fish even though I hated killing worms, I learned that girls were no good, I learned that ice cream was only $1.00 at the General Store and if it was past 7pm you were too late to get it.  I honestly don't have a single memory in my entire life that I can look back on with such joy and want.

I remember my first birthday in North Carolina (my fourth ever) and him and my grandma being there.  I remember him picking me up and singing "over the river and through the woods..." I remember decorating my front yard weeks before Halloween with a smorgasbord of decorations, including a homemade coffin for a faux Dracula.  He even drilled a hole in his finger accidentally as he created the display - and even that was met with laughter and frivolity as were most things in his life.  He replayed the joke year after year until we rolled our eyes every time he walked in the house with a towel covering his hand.  He would say over and over again "You know what Carol Johnson (a family friend) told me?" and I would never have to guess or say the punchline because I always knew what it was: that we looked alike (we don't).  He repeated it over and over again.  I never forgot it... he wouldn't let me.  I remember him at my high school graduation party, inappropriately hitting on my friends.  I remember him at my cousin's wedding last year, brought to tears at the sight of my older brother and our entire family gathered together for the first time in so long.

As a rational human being, it is unimaginably difficult for me to believe that my grandfather doesn't have these memories inside of him and, more importantly, that he can no longer access them.  Call it denial, but I just can't fathom how those moments of joy and innocence can be forgotten completely.  So long as there is someone to call them into the world, they exist.

I know my grandpa doesn't have much time left on this earth, and I know that the time he does have left will not be spent sharing stories.  Life, as it unfolds, separates us from who we come from and tests us to create our own paths.  I am only beginning to mourn the loss of my grandfather, and the rest of my grandparents, and the stories they held within them.  It's a startling, almost tragic, realization to come to: knowing that what's a secret will always be a secret once someone is gone.  I choose to focus my attention not on what's unknown but what I felt, saw, smelled, tasted and heard while my grandparents were alive.  More than that, I know that my senses will sneak in from time to time to remind me where I came from.

People come and go, but their stories remain as long as we allow them to.  Their stories are what matter, and I believe this so deeply.  The stories of others - their lives, their triumphs, their tragedies, and their lessons - are what teach us how to live and how to remember.

I guess this is why I feel so strongly about recording the experiences of my life, and also why I've been so hesitant.  On one level, I am terrified of my existence being forgotten.  On another, I recognize that once my story is out in the world, it is open to others' interpretations

I can only hope that my story is remembered like my grandfather's: with warmth.