Thanks for the Memories

This is a picture of my youngest daughter and myself. We are on a Norwegian Cruise ship somewhere in the Baltic Sea. We are in a large room that serves as a quiet space for reading, writing, etc. We were wandering about when we found it. Just behind us is a shelf that holds puzzles. Now we're talking—she loves puzzles, and I love her, so we're going to work on a puzzle. This is a great memory that I treasure, and I'm blessed to have a picture to help me hold it close.

That's my memory. Her mom might tell a different story, or she might corroborate. It's random. If it comes to a disagreement we may have had, the memories diverge with greater frequency.

So, how can I tell if what I remember is accurate? I suppose having witnesses would be helpful. A video recording would be great. Something that would be admissible in court. Most of the time, these resources are unavailable. Now what?

I've gone back in time to review some of the incidents of my youth that contributed to my character, but how do I know what really happened on a sunny spring day at the Friends Meeting House in 1960? I would have been three years old. I will tell you I remember it, even though I'm sure I can't. Perhaps I've been telling the story for thirty years, and maybe that created the memory. Okay. I think that gives us enough to theorize that my memories are not necessarily a good representation of what actually occurred.

I want to write fiction, and in that arena, all of my memories, fact or fiction, are useful. Regardless of what might have happened, I use my version to justify my current interactions with life. Or, as I mistyped it the first time, I use my version to justify my interaction with love. What a hoot!

Now, here's the thought that just came to me. When there is a car accident, the police will make a report, and in that report, they will talk about speed and distance, how that affected the damage, and who was responsible. Great. Useful information for the insurance companies and possibly whether or not I get to keep my driver's license. Regardless, after the report is finalized, I still have a dented front corner panel and a twisted front bumper.

If I want my car to look good and drive well, I'm going to have to get some work done. Given my mechanical skills, I'll have to take it to a professional and spend some money I don't want to spend. Most likely I'll have to take some time off of work.

When it comes to my experience on that sunny spring day in Santa Monica at the Friends meeting house, my memory is not pleasant, and I've come to believe that my three-year-old conclusions about it were foundational to how I approach life. At some point it doesn't matter who did what when. My job as an adult is to take myself into the shop. Spend money I don't want to spend—take time off work and as a bonus, I get to do a tremendous amount of work myself.

I'm not sure what my conclusions are. Maybe my memories are less important than what I'm going to do with my life now—unless it's the one where I get to put a puzzle together with my adorable daughter. I want to keep that one solid.