Memory is a fascinating thing. It's amazing to me the details that a person can remember from seemingly innocuous events. I won't claim (anymore) that my memory is the best. I think the issue now is I just don't form memories as easily as I once did. It took my forever to remember Mark's middle name. I knew it, but I would always second guess myself and say it was something else. I won't say it here on the off chance he doesn't want it broadcast to the entirety of the internets.
An example of recollection played out Saturday night when I was over at Mike & Jen's. We got on the topic of school teachers, old coworkers, and traumatic memories. (Dancing with a girl in junior high!?! EEW!!) Jen was only present at the same school Mike and I went to for a short time. We were both able to come up with a lot of 8th grade memories and teachers that Mike was unable to. After a while we began to question if he actually attended Junior High his 8th grade year. My theory was A.I. replicant. Anything to get out of P.E. I suppose.
I can remember an English/Writing teacher that I had specifically because she questioned my use of the word viaduct. Even tho it is basically a bridge, I'd only ever heard the bridge leading to my house called a viaduct. I didn't know there was an appreciable difference. Don't bother looking it up. I honestly don't care at this point in my life. I remember the science teacher who was the school heartthrob. I can remember the math teachers I had. The one who taught both my 7th and 9th years. As well as the 8th grade one who later went on to have a mental breakdown.
I remember the layout of the school. If the building still existed, I could find my way around like it was yesterday. The footprint of the building wasn't very big, but it was a 3-story building with a gym basement. If you had gym followed by a class on the third floor it sucked. I remember being fascinated by fellow student because they also like Stephen King books.
The old grocery store across the street was the place for after school fights. It was also the parking lot for those country kids who were allowed to drive. I remember dreading home-ec and shop. They were forced electives, that you had to take for at least a semester than at your leisure from there. I hated home-ec, but I hated shop more.
Between the three of us, we came up with names of people that we'd worked with. Kids that were beaten up or did the beating up. Teachers that smelled like pot. Choir concerts. Crushes. I probably could still take you to where my locker once was if the school still stood.
Is this what we'll be like when we're septuagenarians? Except we'll be talking about stuff we're doing now.Labels: childhood, memories, past |
