A Crash, A Concussion. And years later, the Memories.

 

That’s me on the left--the girl with the scowl. And there’s my brother, smiling. It’s 1962. There’s a whole lot behind this photograph. My father posed us in front of the new car he had just bought to replace the Ford that was destroyed when my mother and I were in a crash on the Connecticut Turnpike. She was still in the hospital when this photograph was taken, barely alive--her hip, knee and ankle shattered. I survived--a miracle, since this was in the days before safety belts and I was thrown through the windshield landing in the grass on the side of the highway.

But why the scowl? I am eight years old, about to start the fourth grade. Mrs. Poole will be my teacher in September at Belltown Elementary School and I imagine I’ll be able to get out of school work, because I have a concussion.

But Mrs. Poole was strict and she didn’t buy this tactic. That’s all I remember from the fourth grade. The rest is a concussive blur. The next thing I remember is waking up and it’s November 1963, I’m in the fifth grade and the teacher tells us we can go home early because our president has been shot.

That’s how a lot of my childhood felt--like slides in a Kodak Carousel--moving fast, flipping through the years with some jumbled images from vacations and holidays and then some years--just blank. Completely blank.

But here’s the remarkable part about being seventy-two years old--my brain has started filling in the missing pieces. Everyday brings new discoveries. I may not remember where I put the car keys, but I remember the jump rope song from second grade. (Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack), not that your asked.

It’s all a miracle. Truly.

Creative Friends-- If you are reading this and you are young--slow down and observe. Write things down. Record events. Take pictures. Do whatever you can to hold onto your memories. And if you are old, like me and memories have begun to slowly trickle back into your consciousness, then take the time to honor them. Build on the memories available to you now and slowly fill in all the missing pieces. And then, like Proust after his taste of the Madeleine—your story be illuminated.

Love,

Jamie