such a long drive

Current Music: Love For Me - Guster

Here's a true story, written by me in the eighth grade, that I thought everyone might be amused by. Many of you will probably realize I wrote a song about it, too. Yes, this experience was a memorable one. Enjoy yet another walk down memory lane with me this December as you read.

One thing I think everyone has noticed about their childhoods, whether they are a psychiatrist, scholar, or layman, is that the memories that always seem to stick with you are the traumatic ones. And when you are very young, these can range from scraping your knee, to losing your parent in the grocery store, or to dropping your ice cream. Every mini crisis seems to be the worst moment that has happened in your life, and in your simple, innocent mind, you can justify that. But as you grow older, it's easy to look back and laugh.

I remember one particular time when I was about three. My family still lived Atlanta, and we went to this gigantic church full of diversities. It was always sure to be packed.

So, we were sitting there one Sunday, my family on my right side and a stranger on the left, when church was dismissed. The crowd lunged into the aisle until there was a huge swarm of people going down it like water in a river. I looked down (when you're that small, it's a strain to look up, you know) to realize that neither of my parent's shoes were there. Panicking, I looked into the jumble of people and saw them: my dad's shoes. Relieved, I grabbed his hand and began to walk with him towards the door.

Later, standing out in the reception hall, I was still holding his strong, protective hand. Being little and curious, I looked around the big room as Mother had an ever going conversation with him. Then it happened. Mom straightened her purse strap, grinned down at me and said, "Look whose hand you're holding."

I looked up (when you're that small, it's a strain to look up, you know), and to my dismay it wasn't Dad. A stranger looked down at me with a warm smile. I had grabbed the wrong hand! Redness must have filled my little face, because that is my first memory of embarrassment.

That day taught me one lesson and one lesson only: Men's dress shoes look very much the same.

And I'll never forget that.

Posted by Sarah at 02:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Current Music: Criminal - Fiona Apple

The strangest memory just came back to me.

For the past few minutes I was walking around noticing a sharp, subtle pain in the ball of my left foot. When I finally stopped for a moment to inspect it for the cause of my discomfort, I found everything on my foot, but nothing stuck in. I looked at little black particles of Tollerson floor dirt, lint from my cat-in-the-hat slippers, but nothing pointy and sharp protruded from my aching appendage. And that's when the memory came back to me.

There was sometime when I was very young, maybe five or six, that somehow a very small piece of pencil lead got stuck in the top joint of my left thumb. At first it was just kind of sticking out, but I never bothered getting it out, so eventually my skin grew over it. I remember peering through the first layer of skin and seeing the small gray object contently sitting there, looking somewhat like a freckle. I'd heard some things about lead poisoning, and was mildly worried, but in the end, it didn't cause me any pain, so I mostly forgot about it.

Every couple of months I would look at my odd freckle and wonder how it was possible that a piece of lead could stay stuck in there that long, and wonder how I could still see it after so much time had passed.

I must have kept noticing it, looking at it, until I was eleven or so, and hadn't thought about it since.

So suddenly, when this memory came back to me tonight, I desperately wondered if my freckle was still there. With a few quick glances all up and down my thumb, it was obvious that it was gone. Nothing but the color of my pinkish-brown flesh remained.

And now, as a seventeen year old with that part of my childhood long gone, I wonder what really happened with that piece of pencil lead. Was there really ever any pencil lead at all? Or did my imagination just create the idea and I stuck with it? Was it really just a freckle that eventually faded when my skin stretched and pushed apart into my new adult body? How do I know what really happened? I don't. And I never will.

As children, we can believe anything. Parents tell us stories of Santa Clause, sisters tell us a false definition of closed captioning, and we'll believe it, without a doubt in our trusting minds. We can even create elaborate stories about ourselves that we may grow up and believe our whole lives. With that in mind, there was a certain amount of pleasantness in remembering the story of my lost freckle. There was also a twinge of sadness. While I'm still a very trusting person, I'll never have the same overwhelming love for the world I had as a child. I'll never again believe in Santa Claus.

But maybe, just maybe, if this Christmas Eve Mom and Dad are real quiet and stuff our stockings, wind up the music box Jenna and I listened so eagerly for, and run back into their rooms and pretend to be asleep, I'll find it in my heart to pretend.

Just like I did when I still had that freckle. . .

Posted by Sarah at 10:37 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)