Memories

I just talked for 10 minutes solid in my Theatre class with no preparation.

But that was the point, after all. I just didn’t think about how…involved in the moment you can really get. I asked one of my friends after class how long I’d talked, because all I knew was that my mouth went dry at some point during it. We were to take a room from our childhood, one with memories, recreate as best we could with the available furniture in the room, and then talk about it.

I created my grandparent’s living room and sitting area.

The idea is to not think of everything you’re going to say before hand and just start talking, letting memories come to you. Apparently I had a lot of memories to talk that long. And what it’s brought to mind is that knowing where you come from really is important.

For some reason I want to babble about my grandparents now, on my dad’s side. They really are fascinating people. Poppy was a hobo during the great depression. He jumped trains riding to find work. He ended up in south Louisiana where he met my grandma, who was studying to be a nurse. They were married in secret.

I have so many memories in that house though. My dad grew up in it, so much of his childhood is still there, and despite our infrequent visits, so much of mine is too. I think visiting there taught me a lot about being grateful for what I have.

For instance, the house doesn’t have central heat or air. She has window units and space heaters. I appreciate my health, my ability to eat…because my granddad spent many, many years on a feeding tube because he messed up in life and ignored his diabetes. I learned to take what doctors say to heart, because I couldn’t stand to live the life he did. And I learned that fact as well. I don’t want to waste away.

But at the same time, I learned what it is to find joy in simple things. I read more there than anywhere else, especially in the sunroom. The simple toys, like Lincoln Logs, brought us hours of fun. Looking at all the old kids’ books my dad used to read was fascinating. Hide and seek took on new heights when played with older cousins. It was the neatest thing ever to realize that you could WALK PLACES in Mansfield. You can’t do that back home.

So many memories did come back, and they keep coming back. It’s amazing. I talked about the plethora of fridges, about the old table, the lawn chairs, the porch, the dirty floor, how we always wore socks, fighting over the couch to sleep on, the piano, grandma’s paintings…

And then when I talked about Poppy, I remembered it all. All those hazy memories that when you look back on them they seem like yellowed photographs. I can see that house in a yellow photograph in my mind. But what I hate is that I can’t clearly see my grandfather’s face anymore. I just want to crawl back into his lap in that chair in the kitchen, sit there, being held by him, and I want to remember what he looked like. I want to remember it clearly. I hate it that my clearest memories of him are so sickly, him lying in bed, wasting away for years. I remember how happy he always was to see us, but I want the memories of him at the dinner table. I want to remember more than his back at the grill, burning our dinner to a crisp it seemed.

I just…want that back.

And Jim didn’t say a thing about my exercise when I finished, I don’t know what that means. But I think he saw when I almost cried.

Memories

I just talked for 10 minutes solid in my Theatre class with no preparation.

But that was the point, after all. I just didn’t think about how…involved in the moment you can really get. I asked one of my friends after class how long I’d talked, because all I knew was that my mouth went dry at some point during it. We were to take a room from our childhood, one with memories, recreate as best we could with the available furniture in the room, and then talk about it.

I created my grandparent’s living room and sitting area.

The idea is to not think of everything you’re going to say before hand and just start talking, letting memories come to you. Apparently I had a lot of memories to talk that long. And what it’s brought to mind is that knowing where you come from really is important.

For some reason I want to babble about my grandparents now, on my dad’s side. They really are fascinating people. Poppy was a hobo during the great depression. He jumped trains riding to find work. He ended up in south Louisiana where he met my grandma, who was studying to be a nurse. They were married in secret.

I have so many memories in that house though. My dad grew up in it, so much of his childhood is still there, and despite our infrequent visits, so much of mine is too. I think visiting there taught me a lot about being grateful for what I have.

For instance, the house doesn’t have central heat or air. She has window units and space heaters. I appreciate my health, my ability to eat…because my granddad spent many, many years on a feeding tube because he messed up in life and ignored his diabetes. I learned to take what doctors say to heart, because I couldn’t stand to live the life he did. And I learned that fact as well. I don’t want to waste away.

But at the same time, I learned what it is to find joy in simple things. I read more there than anywhere else, especially in the sunroom. The simple toys, like Lincoln Logs, brought us hours of fun. Looking at all the old kids’ books my dad used to read was fascinating. Hide and seek took on new heights when played with older cousins. It was the neatest thing ever to realize that you could WALK PLACES in Mansfield. You can’t do that back home.

So many memories did come back, and they keep coming back. It’s amazing. I talked about the plethora of fridges, about the old table, the lawn chairs, the porch, the dirty floor, how we always wore socks, fighting over the couch to sleep on, the piano, grandma’s paintings…

And then when I talked about Poppy, I remembered it all. All those hazy memories that when you look back on them they seem like yellowed photographs. I can see that house in a yellow photograph in my mind. But what I hate is that I can’t clearly see my grandfather’s face anymore. I just want to crawl back into his lap in that chair in the kitchen, sit there, being held by him, and I want to remember what he looked like. I want to remember it clearly. I hate it that my clearest memories of him are so sickly, him lying in bed, wasting away for years. I remember how happy he always was to see us, but I want the memories of him at the dinner table. I want to remember more than his back at the grill, burning our dinner to a crisp it seemed.

I just…want that back.

And Jim didn’t say a thing about my exercise when I finished, I don’t know what that means. But I think he saw when I almost cried.