I Want My Blankie!

I don't consider myself a materialistic person. My car is almost ten years old, I have shoes that are even older, and I don't own a piece of jewelry any self-respecting burglar would want to steal. If I get a little crazy about any of my possessions, it has to have something beyond monetary value. It has to have sentimental value. I guess that was why I was more upset that one of my Italian ceramic salad servers fell on the floor and shattered then I was when our son dented our car. Or why I went into a prolonged funk when I realized I had accidentally deleted a special photo of my husband, brother-in-law (seen once every two or three years), and son making music in the basement. It's all about the memories attached to an object.And I don't take it very well when one of those objects bites the dust.

The latest loss happened the other night. This time it was a comforter, a $6 garage sale purchase that quickly became our go-to picnic blanket. We shuttled it back and forth between our family room and the back of my car for years. We played games on it, we ate Chinese food on it, we cuddled under it. We took it to the beach, to concerts, to the park. In twenty years we put so much mileage on that tufted piece of material that the cars and trucks that decorated it had to have their tires replaced. In short, it was well-loved and full of memories.

And now it's gone, thrown out by one of our daughter's careless ex-boyfriends. I'd been asking her about it for months but by the time she got around to asking her ex about it, he sheepishly admitted that he thought it had been junked the last time his family cleaned out the garage. It never ceases to amaze me how someone can randomly make a decision about an item's value without consulting the owner. How easy it would have been for him to call first or drop it off on our doorstep instead of pitching it without consideration of the years of memories wrapped up in that dusty, old blanket.

I know I still have the memories. I know I shouldn't take the loss of a stupid blanket so seriously. I know I can find another comfortable garage sale bargain.

But it won't make me smile every time I look at it.

Forget Me Not

Yesterday, I wrote about how annoying it is to deal with memory loss. Today, I’m thinking about how tough it is to forget.

Last night, like much of America, I watched some of the programming about one of the worst days in our country’s history. One of the shows did a minute by minute countdown of the day’s events, including graphic footage I had never seen before. (I guess filmmakers have decided that eleven years is long enough to shield us from some of the more horrific images of that day.) As I cried watching innocent victims falling from the towers, I was struck by the power of memories. Those of us who lived through that day will never forget any of it – the sight of those planes hitting the towers, the sounds of people crying, the eerie silence of an empty sky. All of it is so embedded in our memories that just the sight of the towers in an old movie can bring every emotion we felt on that day back to the surface.

Last November 22^nd, I was speaking to a co-worker about the significance of that day. She looked at me with a blank expression; she didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. Why would she? She was twenty-two years old, twelve years older than I was when President Kennedy was assassinated. That she could have no reference to a day that stood out so vividly in my memory was not surprising. It must have been the same look I had given my parents when they talked about December 7^th.

Will September 11^th ever be another day? It will be someday for somebody.

Follow That Truck?

The experts say that our sense of smell is our greatest trigger of memories. While I can't disagree that the aroma of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies does ship me back in time to my Nana's kitchen or that cutting a fresh lemon does transport me back to the Amalfi Coast, I still think the ring of an old familiar song is the closest thing to a Time Machine voyage we human beings are ever going to experience. The song definitely remembers when - especially when the chimes of Turkey in the Straw (or as I know it, Do Your Ears Hang Low?) pierce the humid, summer air.

The ice cream man wasn't always a rip-off. When I was a kid (okay, be ready to be very jealous), The Good Humor Truck was the only game in town. The drivers in the crisp, white shirts delivered yummy, chemical-free treats to you and two of your best friends for less than a dollar. He didn't have a song then, just a bell; a bell that had every kid in the neighborhood salivating every bit as much as Pavlov's dog. The instant gratification of running to that truck with a pocketful of quarters and coming away with a frosty treat was the best. I tried my best to recreate the memory for my own kids but by that time, Good Humor ice cream was found in every grocery store and never tasted as good as it did when it was dripping down your arm while you were standing on the curb - not that I ever heard them complain.

Now that the independently owned ice cream trucks employ a song you can't get out of your head and serve $2.50 vanilla flavored, imitation chocolate-covered ice cream bars, I can't help feeling sorry for today's kids. It must be a tough sell trying to convince their moms to pony up the cost of a steak dinner for a handful of Popsicles.

But, there's no denying, there's something powerful about that damn song. Like a cobra popping out of that basket when his turbaned master picks up his flute, I've been close to jumping out of my car and tracking down that pied piper more than a few times and I haven't had a child looking up at me for more than fifteen years.

So maybe it doesn't matter that it's expensive. Maybe it doesn't matter if the quality isn't as good. Maybe all that matters is that it's part of your childhood - a part I know I'll want to share someday with my grandchildren.

I just hope I can afford those $10 Fudgesicles.

Something to Look Forward To

I last wrote about how much I missed the great family vacations we used to take over Spring Break. Oh, sure, we had to take them with several thousand other families but that was a small price to pay for all that togetherness. Now that those days are behind us, I couldn't help feeling sorry for myself for still reporting to work while everyone else was off lounging in a cabana somewhere.

Little did I know that my hubby had something up his sleeve. As I was whining, he was busy planning. So it looks like we're going to be on the road again after all. I'm not sure when but it looks as if I might be getting back to my beloved Italy sooner then I ever expected. Life sure is full of surprises. I know I'll always be grateful to look back on the memories of those amazing times with our kids. But it looks like it might finally be time for their father and I to stop reminiscing and go out and make a few amazing memories of our own .