169. You Can't Go Home

So we spent the weekend in Pennsylvania revisiting my childhood home and I have just one question: did I really live here? because I remember almost nothing.

We drove to 819 Featherstone Court where I (supposedly) lived from age 5—10; this was the primary purpose of our multi-hour car trek. Somehow I was magnetically drawn to return to this era of my ordinary and uneventful youth; I needed to come back.  As we approached the house, I searched in vain for something I would recognize—a tree, a patio, a garden—anything.

I turned to the Husband (who lives so close to his childhood home that he can drive past it daily if he wanted to) and said, “Maybe there’s another 819 Featherstone? Maybe we have the wrong one.”

It’s not that the new owners had changed the house drastically (comparing the Real Life version to the blurry Photo Version my mom had taken many years prior), it’s just nothing about it seemed familiar. I had expected, wanted even, to feel overcome with emotion, but instead my brain tricked me: I was overcome with neutrality.

If my chronological memories were sheets of paper and every day was a page, here were 1825 pages to paw through from my youth in Pennsylvania. After I had unearthed the correct pages, I found the once-vibrant ink was faded to the point of being illegible.

I berated myself: why could I remember the Maui hotel and yet Pennsylvania could not be found amongst the torn pages of my mind? We had vacationed in Maui eight years ago, for one week. A mere short story of seven days compared to the unedited manuscript of 1825 days, and yet I could recall in excruciating detail the exact texture of the bedspread, the precise arrangement of flowers in the wallpaper, the surly attitude of the bellman, the refreshing temperature of the pool, the taste of the fresh mango I ate for breakfast.

These 1825 days in rural Pennsylvania: did they happen to somebody else? Where did they go?  I close my eyes and see the papers stacked neatly in front of an open window—a sudden gust of wind scatters them, they cannot be retrieved. 

(Adjacent to the house was a large hill, the hill we would go sledding on.  I remembered falling on that hill, twisting my shoulders and landing hard and bruised in the freezing snow.  Success!  A memory!  But why did I remember only the bad things?) 

The house itself was unremarkable at best, an ordinary split-level relic of bad architecture from the 1970’s. It had been painted an unfortunate shade of blue. I could see a wooden deck tacked haphazardly onto the side, a weak afterthought:  maybe-we-can-sit-out-here-and-enjoy-the-view. 

We sat in front of 819 Featherstone Court for what seemed like a long time but was probably three minutes.  The Husband prompted, “There’s a lady staring out the window at you; maybe you should knock on the door?”

I could see her, too, sitting in what I knew to be the living room—the same living room where my sister Oakley had vomited all those Easter jelly beans years ago. 

Knock on the door?  Huh.  This was not in my Original Plan, but it seemed like an idea. Not a good idea, not a bad idea, just a neutral idea to go with my overall neutrally-themed mindset.

I knocked, and then to prove that I had not been watching her watching me, rang the bell. An average woman a little older than me answered. “Yes?” she queried politely, as if she had been disturbing me instead of the other way around.

“I grew up in this house,” I blurted out, willing tears to come but instead being washed over by a startling wave of neutrality, “my name is MOV and I haven’t been back in 30 years.”

Now if we were in a movie, this is the part where the dramatic music would reach a crescendo as The New Owner would open the door, reach out and hug me, and usher me in as if we were long-lost soul sisters, the missing pieces of each other's puzzles.

This is what happened instead:  she said, "Oh."

Long awkward silence.

And then finally, with a tone indicating she was unimpressed and underwhelmed, “I’m Becky. When did you live here, then?”

We chatted pleasantly enough for a few minutes while The Husband and our sons grew restless in the car, but it wasn’t like I was talking to the woman who cooked on my stove and took baths in my tub. It was more like I was talking to the checker at the grocery store. “Beets are on sale, toothpaste's on aisle three, that coupon has expired.”

Which begs the question: if I don’t remember it, can I just reinvent it? Later we drove by a stunning brick Colonial in an adjacent neighborhood: can I just claim that one for my own? It’s much prettier than the split-level. If I don’t recall it anyway, can I go ahead and trade in my memories, sort of upgrade them?  I can imagine myself living there, I can imagine playing in the yard.  Is imagination better than memory?

What purpose does memory serve anyway? 
 
The town itself is well-known as the home of Famous University. Everyone in Famous Town assumes that’s why you’re here: to visit Famous University. They don’t expect that you lived here when you were five.

“Would you like to buy a Famous University sweatshirt, maybe in green or navy?” the hotel front desk clerk chirps while she shoves one across the counter towards me.

I glance at their mascot emblazoned on the front of the sweatshirt, Big Animal. He looks mean.  “Uh, no, no thank you,” I smile weakly.

“You know, Ryland’s Souvenirs doesn’t sell them any cheaper, if you’re comparing prices.” She blinks, daring me to argue.

“I’m not. Comparing prices I mean. I just don’t want one.”

“Oh, you already have one. I understand. I forget that most people already have a shirt from Famu.” That’s what the locals call it, Famu, but they say it like “Fay—moo”. “You can always order another one, maybe as a gift for someone special back home?”

“Yeah, I’m all set for now,” I confirm.

The clerk nods at me, she’s happy now. Sure, sure, I have one, if that’s what you want to believe, just give me my damn key so I can check in.

Later that evening, we try to replicate more wrinkled pages of my childhood by dining in the café my mom and I used to frequent, Magnolia Grill. The four of us walk in and ask the hostess for a window booth.  The Husband searches my face for some expression, “Well?” he whispers, leaning in. He’s looking for legible ink, at least a few vague scribbles.

My memory is Switzerland: no opinion, no preference, no distinction, just utterly and painfully neutral.  The pages, what's left of them, have turned a grubby shade of beige.  I give a non-committal shrug. I face a new and pressing question: am I a victim of amnesia? or early-onset Alzheimer’s?

The server takes our order and proceeds to lose it (aha—maybe the lost order is cozying up somewhere with the lost pages of my mind). We re-order and after a long wait, we finally receive our burgers which are practically oozing grease. The check comes to $73 for the four of us. We walk out of Magnolia Grill into the cool night and I’m actually relieved to finally have an impression of something, even if it's bad.

If it’s true that we have selective memories, why wasn’t my brain selecting any of these memories?  I realize that Pennsylvania was merely the backdrop for my childhood, the set design, if you will.  But not remembering the set design for "Miss Saigon" or "The Phantom of the Opera"—isn't the set design the whole point?  Why had the pages of my personal script disintegrated to the verge of the unrecognizable?  Was I merely a reluctant participant in the events of my own life?  

Being a mother of two small boys, I immediately project my situation on to them. If I remember zilch from these so-called “impressionable” years, would they also remember virtually nothing from their childhoods?  Why was I working so hard to give them a charmed life, a Norman Rockwell existence full of fun and laughter and books and museums and summer camps and sports?  Why? Why did I do it?

Will they notice? Will they remember? Or will their pages be ripped and faded too?

MOV
(“Mustn’t Overanalyze Vacation”)

48. No Memories Here

It is a well-known fact that children do not remember 99% of what happens to them before the age of 5. My own memories from when I was this age consist of me falling off the jungle gym and cracking my head open, and also the exact color and texture of the lunch trays at my preschool. That's it. My mom tells me we went to Hong Kong on a cruise. Nope, doesn't ring a bell. My grandmother used to take me to the toy store and buy me special dolls. No, no recollection whatsoever.

Why is it, then, that I knock myself out to provide wonderful "experiences" for my children when merely playing in the backyard would suffice?

We have dragged them to dinosaur museums, Air and Space Museums, history museums, the zoo, every park within a 20 mile radius, puppet shows, aquariums, butterfly gardens, the coast, and even the airport. If it is synonymous with "culture", we have tried it. Sometimes I quiz them later to see if they retained anything.

Our conversations go something like this:

Me: Tall, did you like the American Indian Museum we went to last week?

Tall: (thinking hard for a minute and scrunching up his little eyebrows) Do you mean the one with the fountain in front? or, um, no, was it...

Me: (cutting him off) YES, that's the one!

Tall: Uhhh, I can't exactly remember what I saw there, but the spaghetti they had in their lunch place was definitely better than yours.

Next, I quiz Short.

Me: Short, what did you think of that new playground Mommy took you to this morning? The one by the Post Office? Wasn't that fun?

Short: Shhhhhh, Mom! I am TRYING to watch "Chugginton" and you keep innerupping!

Me: (turning off TV) Short! You are being rude to me! I am asking you a question. Short: (mad) Turn my show back on right now, you mean Mommy!

Me: Not until you answer my question. I asked you what you thought of the playground we went to.

Short: (blank look on his face) We did not go to a playground.

Me: (getting frustrated) Yes we did. We just got back 2 hours ago! Short: Have you seen my Avatar toy from McIcky's?

Me: (finding my camera) Look, Short, I'll show you. Here. I took a picture of you on the swing!

Short: (looking at the picture) Huh, who is that?

Me: (triumphant) It's you!

Short: It's not me.

 As you can imagine, I can get quite deflated when my children not only do not appreciate the fact that I took them on some new adventure, but they cannot even remember it from this morning. It is like Alzheimer's, but in reverse.

Chilzheimer's.

 Even though THEY recall virtually NOTHING about it, I vividly remember getting the snacks together, putting the sunscreen on them, spraying everyone with bug spray, getting cold water bottles for them, checking that the camera battery is recharged, packing a change of clothes for both of them (just in case), finding the lost hat, going to the bank to get some quarters for parking meters, filling the tank with gas, printing out MapQuest directions. Tall vaguely remembers the possibility of some sort of fountain.

 The next day, I take Tall to a local bakery known for its bread. For about one year, I used to go here almost daily with Tall (he was about 2 years old at the time). In the meantime, a new cafe has opened that I prefer, so this one has dropped off my radar. We walk in together and the owner practically jumps across the counter.

"Tall!" she screeches, "Is that you? I have not seen you and your mother in, what, maybe 4 or 5 years?"

 Tall gets a big grin on his face.

"Hello, Ms. Marianna. I remember you. My mommy and I used to come here every day and she would always get a chocolate croissant."

 Ms. Marianna and Tall beam at each other, sharing a memory, like he and I used to share a croissant.

 MOV ("Memories Of Voyage")