Paul Richardson: There was a time

Placing memories in the correct chronological order is proving to be a task in and of itself. There is a period of time, before my parents moved into the new house close to town, that I can recall bits of memories, but only in a random, sporadic order. 

Nothing is consistent or contiguous, and there is not enough information for me to assemble these into a coherent chain of events.

I am not sure of what was the first thing that I knew, but it was before I was told that the first thing you know is Old Jed’s a millionaire. Knowing that I knew something before that, makes that statement nonsense and certainly not the first thing I knew. 

I can recall a few memories from the farm where my parents lived, but other than that I have to rely on the memories provided in the stories that my dear mother relates. I am not certain, but I think some of these are either embellished or my role is greatly played down in order to make me take second billing. The end result is that I have to live vicariously through these stories until I can get to the time when my memories become more developed and actually make some sense.

Upon reaching that time, the end result of this sense of awareness is that now we have two, three, or more stories of the same event, coming from different sources and none of them seem to be the same. It is not that we are getting the same story from different perspectives, it is two or more totally different stories with entirely different outcomes. 

In addition, these stories may have different philosophies and totally unusable life lessons if I am trying to utilize them. I never know who to trust, my dear mother, the good wife, my sister the sneaky sibling, or even my own kids. You would think that someone would want to help me out. I am just looking for one, single source of third-party validation, someone that recalls the same details that describe my gallant role in the entire course of our family history.

It turns out that these to are simply memories. Memories of a time when as the oldest child, my dear mother would strive to assist me in putting forth the best possible image. A time when the good wife was so much in love that I could do no wrong. A time when my sister…., well never mind that example. 

My kids, what can I say about my kids? Well, I was the parent, so they are working on holding on to their own memories and probably don’t want any interjections that don’t support their version of the memory of the day.

There was a time, a time when the memories were being made that I thought, “I need to remember this moment, it’s going to be something that I will want to revisit at some point in the future.” 

Without the present technology, such as recording events with our cellphones, those times are dependent upon the fragile functions of the old grey matter. I am afraid to revisit those memories accompanied by anyone that was there. My memory will probably be incorrect, or at least that is what I will be told!