It’s amazing how a lifetime can come down to a single day. I am in the process of packing up my mother’s house to move her to Louisiana and am amazed by the memories contained in her home.
Photos on the wall from Dukes, Grand Hotel, Collier and company…
Children who were not yet adults by creeks that looked like raging rivers to them at the time…
Young eyes full of hope, dreams and promise…
Long forgotten songs with the #1 beside them in a magazine called Billboard…
Life encapsulated. Lives… encapsulated. Fascinating.
Hard to know with every coffee cup, photograph, stuffed animal and thing “As Seen On TV” which ones need to make the journey. Surely they don’t all need to survive the move.
But who am I to decide? I’m in the pictures, on the cups and maybe even provided a stuffed animal or two but what do I know?
It’s not possible to know what someone else holds in an object. The simplest of things can contain memories so emotional and vast that someone may be willing to give their lives for its protection.
Dramatic..? Consider the source.
I’ve been going through interviews for “Smothered” lately and noticed what strong emotions come from a shared experience. The cast appears to all remember the experience fondly. I’l bet they all have something in their homes to commemorate the experience. Something that won’t mean anything at all to one of their children or grandchildren sometime in the future who may be moving them somewhere else to live out their lives.
I wrote a screenplay about finding something in my mother’s house a few years ago. Something dark. I default to dark when I write. More on that later. The point is that the object I found held memories for me. They were sitting there in that box waiting patiently for someone like me to visit. To give them life. Wings. One glance into this box and I was 8 again. 10. 13.
Memories are amazing things. Perhaps they are what novelists are speaking of when they write of time travel. A memory is very nearly like being there. Songs and smells do that for me too.
How about you? What triggers memories for you? Good ones… not so good… great?
By the way… I’m going to go get a bigger truck so I can pack it all. Who am I to decide which of my mother’s memories make it to Louisiana?
On the road again!