Sara 1974

Memories can be as difficult to recover as your grandmother’s doilies packed in the bottom of a tattered cardboard box in your cousin’s attic. They may lie tucked in a dusty corner of your mind, becoming thin and musty with age.

But occasionally you’ll stumble across one of those elusive memories. It might be a photo that prompts a withdrawal from your memory bank. It could be a specific smell or sound. Maybe it’s something you read that precipitates a recollection.

Today I experienced the latter when I came across Abby Sher’s story, Selling My Mother’s Dresses. As I read the article, I remembered rummaging through piles of clothing at garage sales in pursuit of items with quality fabric I could cut up to sew dresses for my little girls.

I distinctly recollect the outfits I created from repurposed material, but those I sewed from purchased fabric are faded memories. My oldest daughter Sara is pictured in 1974 wearing a dress I made from a white dotted swiss kitchen window valence and a plus-size woman’s full skirt. The buttons on the straps came from an old housecoat of my grandmother’s.

The blue smoked dress Sara wore to her uncle’s college graduation was constructed from a polyester leisure suit, much like the one her father wore. I used a light blue denim slipcover to make a vest and skirt for Sara and a jumper for her younger sister, Sonja. The red gingham shirts that completed those outfits were cut from a tablecloth. Kitchen curtains were the basis for the matching pink and baby blue gingham sundresses I sewed for Sonja and Samantha, her little sister.

I always tried to pick certain colors for the two youngest girls — red or pink for Sonja and shades of blue for Samantha, who always ended up wearing both colors when her sister outgrew her clothes. I’ve now been told the girls hated this color designation.

As the girls grew, they began to resist wearing homemade clothes. By that time I was a single mother with little spare time for sewing. However, I did make prom dresses for two of the girls. Neither were made from a tablecloths or curtains.

My granddaughter was named after my cousin Robin, who also died from breast cancer when she was much too young. She lived long enough to know she had a namesake, but like the Robin in Yoffe’s story, she had no children of her own. We were 14 years apart in age; she lived in California, I in Minnesota, so we weren’t close in any sense. However, I knew her well enough to recognize her beauty in both body and spirit. I’m sure she would have been a wise and nurturing mother.

On the fifth anniversary of my cousin’s death, my daughter brought my granddaughter from Fort Worth, Texas, to Santa Cruz, California, to meet friends and family. They all assured us little Robin was doing the name proud with her effervescent personality and joie de vivre.

The article also reminded me of another beautiful woman whose life was cut short. And, there’s a name connection also.

When I first started dating the man I’ve been married to for over 25 years, I knew his first wife had been killed in a car accident, leaving behind three young children who were being raised by their grandparents. I was amazed when they revealed we had not only the same first name (Mary), but also the same middle name (Elaine), highly unusual coupled with my husband’s extremely rare last name.

My step-daughter has been posting photos of her mother on Facebook for Mother’s Day, and this tall woman with the long, dark hair looks like she enjoyed life to the fullest. I know she would be delighted with how her children turned out, would have cherished her grandchildren, and would be anticipating becoming a great-grandmother soon.

The length of our allotted time on this earth remains a mystery, so make the most of every moment. And, make sure you have shared at least a little of your life story with those you love so your memory will live on once you’re gone.

All eyes were on our father as our mother placed a bowl containing half a grapefruit in front of him. Dad reached over, scooped up a heaping spoonful from the sugar bowl in front of him, and with exaggerated motion, liberally sprinkled his grapefruit with the granules. Using the special spoon with tiny teeth at the point, he dug out a large section of the citrus, and while we all held our breath, brought the grapefruit to his mouth.

“Who put salt in the sugar bowl?” Dad roared, jumping up from the table, the spoon clattering to the floor. My brothers both shrieked with laughter, John pounding the table with his fists, and Mark rocking so hard the back of his booster chair banged against the window ledge behind him. I merely smiled and marveled at my father’s terrible memory. How could he forget we did exactly the same thing on April 1st the year before?

We repeated that April Fool’s Day ritual for many years, my father gamely playing the fool. But the year I was 15, my brothers were laughing at me instead of my father.

Our tiny community had an elementary school, but from seventh grade on, we had to catch a bus to junior and senior high school in a nearby town. Accepting the consequences of our actions was a big deal with my father, so I knew if I didn’t get on that bus, he would not allow my mother to drive me the seven miles. I was paranoid about missing the bus.

On the first day of April my sophomore year in high school, I woke to my mother calling up the stairs, “Mary, it’s almost 7:30!” I threw the covers aside and grabbed a skirt and sweater from my closet. (In 1961, we weren’t allowed to wear pants to school.) Pulling on white tennis shoes over bare feet, I hopped down the stairs and staggered into our only bathroom. A splash of water on my face, a comb through my short brown hair, a perfunctory brush of my teeth, and I was out the door, determined to be there when the bus arrived at 7:40.

I had crossed the railroad tracks and was approaching the bus stop at the elementary school by the time I realized it was Saturday. My brothers greeted me at the door when I returned home, shamefaced and truly feeling the fool. I still think they enjoyed that April Fool’s Day entirely too much.

A full day at a Texas ranch enjoying good food and hospitality left me so tired I collapsed in bed about 11pm. A few hours later I wake up to the persistent whine of our basset hound.

“I let the dog out,” my husband mumbles, but I’m not convinced. As soon as I open the bedroom door, the other two dogs in the house glue themselves to my legs as I walk down the hall, Gunther the shepherd to the right, Bear the black mix to the left, and Scooby trotting on his stubby little legs behind.

Okay, maybe they all need to go out. I open the back door, but Scooby just lifts his leg on the BBQ in a marking-my-territory squirt while Gunther smells his butt. So, they all come back inside. Still they won’t leave me alone. Bear nudges my arm, Gunther dances around me, and Scooby sits with a “why me?” expression on his face.

Finally, when Gunther tries to remove the cover of the dog food container with his nose, I figure out they must be hungry. But, when I open the container, only a few kibbles remain at the bottom. Bear sits patiently by his bowl, and Gunther paces back and forth, sticking his nose into the empty container as if to reassure himself I’m holding out on him.

I know we bought a huge bag of dog food yesterday, so I began searching. All three dogs follow closely, sniffing in all the corners in case the food is hiding somewhere. No luck.

Maybe the food is still in the trunk of my daughter’s car, but I don’t have the keys. Both of them are sleeping because they have to get up a 5am to meet friends for tailgating before the Cowboys game. I start another search, and again the dogs assist me, Scooby sweeping the floor with his nose and ears.

I remember my daughter usually leaves her keys by the door. I spot them and then carefully open the bedroom door. My husband is snoring, his face to the wall. I feel around in the dark for my shoes, but can lay my hands on only one. It’s Texas, so I figure I can manage in my bare feet.

With my exit hampered by three canine bodies pushing against me, I finally escape to the driveway and get the trunk open. Alas, when I try to lift out the bag of dog food, I realize my shoulder pain and resulting weakness in one arm make the feat impossible. How am I going to do this?

Both the driveway and ground are wet, so I can’t drag the bag to the door even if I can get it out of the trunk. So, I pull it halfway out, then bend down and slide under it so the bag rests on my back. After easing the bag completely out, I realize I can’t close the trunk lid from my Quasimodo position.

With the bag of food wedged between my butt and the side of the car, I reach back with my good arm and slam down the lid. At the same time, the car keys drop from my hand, but I hear them clatter on the driveway, so I know I’d didn’t lock them in the trunk.

I feel around on the wet concrete with my bare feet until my toes come in contact with the keyring. However, I can’t quite reach them, so I bend down, the bag of food still balanced on my back, and stretch under the car with one arm until I can grasp the keys.

With one hand gripping the keys and the other holding the bag in place, I hobble up the walk bent at the middle like a Japanese rice picker. When I reach the door, I panic because it won’t open. Will I have to ring the doorbell and wake the entire house? No, it’s just the dogs clustered against the door that prevent it from budging.

Using one arm to hold the bag of dog food still balanced on my back, I use the other shoulder, the bad one, to lean against the door. Apparently the dogs hear me outside and step back, leaving me to tumble into the entryway, the bag of dog food on top of me. I lean on Gunther to pull myself up, then drag the bag down the hallway to the kitchen, all three dogs so close beside me it’s hard to walk without stepping on one of them.

Why do they make these bags so hard to open? I finally find a dangling string that when pulled zips it open. The dogs are overcome with excitement, Gunther doing a happy dance between the bag of food and the dish in his kennel. Bear sits politely by his dish, but anticipation in his eyes. Scooby whacks his tail so hard against my legs I’m sure I’ll have bruises tomorrow.

I grab the cup out of the empty container and measure out food into bowls for both Gunther and Bear, but Scooby’s bowl must still be in the backseat of our car. I am not venturing outside again, so I search for something to use as a dog dish. Scooby is beside himself, panting and whining, until I finally just grab the cover for a large plastic bowl about the size of a hubcap.

Even with a pile of dog food on it, the cover is so light Scooby pushes it around the kitchen tile floor as he eats. Gunther wolfs his food in noisy gulps and Bear concentrates on emptying his bowl, his curled tail at attention.

Now, I’ve got to figure out how to put the dog food into the container. Having finished dining, all three dogs sit and watch me struggle to lift the bag. Eventually, by pushing the container against the freezer and propping the bag on my knee, I can tip it up and pour the food into the bag. I fold the empty bag and put it in the pantry. This is a new vegetarian food, and the pet store said we can bring it back if the dogs don’t like it. No chance of that since all three bowls (well, two bowls and a cover) are empty.

I go back to bed, and since the house is now quiet, I assume the midnight marauders are content with full tummies.

Postscript: When the dogs are not ravenous, they turn up their noses at the vegetarian food. Guess it’s back to the store with it.

Autumn arrived here on Sunday with a bang — the bang of windows slamming shut and lawn chairs hurled against the side of the garage. James Lileks tweeted: “Huge angry wind. Why, we call it “trouble wind” ’round these parts. Fall got tired of waiting and decided to shove summer out of the way.”

Weather changes are always aburpt here in Minnesota, but this year we didn’t even get a chance to mourn the passage of summer. The umbrella and chair cushions on the deck haven’t been put away, and my closet is still full of tank tops and flipflops. Even the squirrels seem to have been caught off guard, having left at least half of the walnuts on the tree in our front yard.

I feel the same about my passage from middle age to senior citizen status. It happened too quickly, and I wasn’t prepared. My oldest daughter turned 40 this spring, and in a few months, my oldest grandchild will no longer be a teenager. When an online friend announced the birth of her second great-grandchild, I realized we’re about the same age. How did all this happen? Haven’t I been paying attention?

I’ve always had the mindset, “it’s never too late,” but I’m wondering if enough grains of sand still remain in my hourglass. My mental bucket list has so few checkmarks, and I still have so many unfulfilled dreams.

Like my friend Sharon, autumn for me has always been a time of new beginnings. Perhaps it’s the memories of the start of the school year with the smell of freshly-sharpened pencils, the sight of thick notebooks with unblemished pages, and the sound of chattering children waiting on the corner for the middle-school bus.

Is it too late for me to enjoy new beginnings?

The Sparky Show, Como Park Zoo, St. Paul, MN

When my daughter and granddaughter visited recently, we spent a day at the zoo. It was packed with families enjoying time together before the kids went back to school. We sat in the warm sun eating cheese curds and waiting for the sea lion show to begin. The two tiers of seating filled up a half hour prior to the show, but in the last minutes before the start, a group of children filed in and stood at the railing, completely blocking the view of those who were seated behind them.

As the show began, a voice over the loudspeaker asked those standing at the railings to sit down. When the children didn’t move, a woman seated behind them with a young girl in a wheelchair asked them politely to leave the railing. All but two complied, so the woman gently guided the boy and girl off to the side. Immediately, another woman, apparently the mother of the two children, shoved them back to the railing, glaring at those who were seated.

That same day, my daughter and granddaughter were waiting to get on a ride at a small amusement park when a couple and their daughter barged in front of them. “Excuse me,” my daughter said, “but you have to wait your turn.” The mother snapped back, “We were here first!”

My daughter protested, explaining that she and her daughter had been standing in line for over an hour, and it was the first time she had even seen these people. Others waiting in line agreed with her, but the couple uttered a few nasty remarks and pushed their daughter forward so she would be first to board the ride.

On a flight to California several years ago, a young boy kicked the back of my seat the entire four hours. When the flight attendant confronted the boy’s father, he said he’d paid full price for his son’s ticket, so he could do whatever he wanted.

These parents taught their children the lesson that inconsiderate, selfish behavior will get them what they want. It’s no wonder that 79% of Americans say lack of respect and courtesy is a serious problem in this country, and 84% blame parents.

Some argue that the lack of religious upbringing has contributed to the rudeness so pervasive in today’s society. Yet look at the discourteous and belligerent behavior of the right-wingers who yell, shout, and jeer during the health care town meetings, drowning out any civilized discussion. Is this really the way Christians are taught to behave?

The erosion of civility in our everyday life has elevated simple acts of thoughtfulness to nearly heroic levels. A recent Today Show segment sent a young woman, who appeared to be pregnant, out onto the streets of New York City laden with large shopping bags. Although many ignored her when she dropped her bags, one older man in a cowboy hat offered to carry them for her. When asked why he stopped to help, he replied, “It doesn’t cost anything to be nice.”

I live in a suburb of Minneapolis, and often hear the term “Minnesota Nice.” However, there was no trace of this niceness years ago when my car broke down on a bridge during rush hour on a sweltering summer day. Even though the drivers who sped by could see my 5-month-old grandson in the car, not one of them stopped. It was nearly an hour before a tow truck happened by and charged an outrageous fee to help us.

Yet when I had a flat tire during rush hour outside Fort Worth, Texas, I hadn’t even gotten out of the car before a young man in a pickup came to my rescue. Although I told him I had AAA, he changed the tire himself and refused to take the money I offered him for his trouble. I’m sure he was late for work.

I’ve been known to perform random acts of kindness on occasion, but I know I’ve been rude at times, usually in response to rudeness from someone else. A young man in our neighborhood sets his car stereo volume so high it rattles the windows in our house. On several occasions I’ve used a common expletive when explaining I have my own musical tastes and they weren’t his.

Rudeness is not merely annoying, it can actually harm us. Researchers have shown that simply witnessing one person being rude to another may stunt creativity, impair mental performance, and decrease civility. There’s not too much we can do about another person’s rudeness, other than letting them know we object to it. However, we must do so in a polite, courteous manner so as to promote mutual respect.

As Bill Watterson, the creator of the comic strip Calvin & Hobbes, said: “A little rudeness and disrespect can elevate a meaningless interaction to a battle of wills and add drama to an otherwise dull day.”

February was a very stressful month, both personally and professionally, which is why my 27th Day posts are several days late. When I’m stressed, I’m anxious, resulting in extreme reactions to trivial matters, such as the shoes my husband left in the middle of the living room floor for me to trip over.

When reviewing specific incidences of annoyance over the past month, I discovered most fell within just a handful of categories. So, I’ve listed the top five things that bug me.

1. Adults who don’t pick up or clean up after themselves. When I go to bed at night, the counters are clean and clutter free. But, after my husband gets up, pours a cup of coffee and makes toast for breakfast, the counters are covered with coffee stains, empty packets of sweetener, an open loaf of bread, and a margarine container with a knife sticking out of it. That bugs me!
2. Individuals who inappropriately promote their personal agendas. I find this even more objectionable than commercial spam. An email, disguised as a joke, denigrates our president; a message on a hobby list urges participation in a letter-writing campaign on a politically-charged issue; a tech forum post calls for the boycott of a company because it’s owned by foreigners. The perpetrators think they can get away with this because they don’t profit monetarily, but this is spam, and it bugs me!
3. Bad grammar. I admit I’m a grammar snob. Any high school graduate who speaks English as a first language should  be able to speak and write correctly. The word “ain’t” is like fingernails scraping across a blackboard. “He don’t” and “there” when “their” is required are almost as annoying. Today is National Grammar Day, so why not make it a point to improve your speaking and writing? That won’t bug me!
4. People who practice and preach intolerance. Yes, I’m intolerant of intolerance. There are those so convinced of the superiority of their opinions and values they are not only prejudiced against those who differ, but actively promote discrimination against them. That, my friends, is bigotry. It bugs me, and it should bug you!
5. A day has only 24 hours and 8 are wasted sleeping. Don’t get me wrong, I love to sleep. I’d probably do it even more if I wasn’t so busy doing other things. I’ve been told we need less sleep as we age, but I didn’t nap until I hit 50. It annoys me that I can’t function without devoting a third of my life to slumber. I spend an hour every day dealing with email, so why can’t I spend only 60 minutes sleeping? That would bug me more if I weren’t so tired.

What bugs you?

He mentioned the rotary phone in his house when he was a kid. Ours didn’t have a dial. To place a call, you picked up the receiver and the operator at the other end said, “Number, please.” Our number was only four digits, and since we were on a party line, we had a distinctive ring — one long and two short.

The phone itself was as black and heavy as a bowling ball, with a straight, cloth-covered cord. It sat on top of the radio/phonograph console in the living room. I was instructed to answer, “Hewitt residence, Mary speaking.”

Our line was shared with my grandmother and my father’s insurance office, so we didn’t have anyone interesting to eavesdrop on. But, when I visited my grandmother, I would sit in the corner of the dining room at the little phone table nestled next to the china cabinet, listening to the interesting conversations of all the neighbors.  My grandmother scolded me only after I repeated everything I’d heard.

I was a teenager when we got our first dial phone, but since we still shared a line, I wasn’t allowed to spend any time gabbing with my girlfriends on the phone. In some ways, we missed the cheery voice of the operator when we picked up the receiver, and it took some time to get used to having to dial a number.

We didn’t have exchanges like they did in the city, so our number was still short. My cousin had a phone number that started with TU, which stood for Tuxedo. I still remember her number: TU1-4489. Bloomington still has the same exchange, but of course is now 881.

In 1965, I went to work for Northwestern Bell Telephone Company in Fargo, ND, back when it was referred to a Ma Bell. I worked as a dispatcher, sending the installers out to put princess phones in teenagers’ bedrooms across the area. How different those cute little phones were from the black behemoth that sat in our living room when I was a child.

Today my phone fits easily in my pocket, and I’m in contact daily with my children and grandchildren who live hundreds of miles away. I am amazed by the technology that allows me to communicate so easily with those I love, but I’m also grateful we once had exchanges that put letters, as well as numbers, on our phone dials. How else would we be able to text?

Scientific studies show that highly emotional events are remembered much longer and more clearly than those that evoke little or no emotion. It’s why my generation remembers the Kennedy assassination and the first moon landing, while my parents remembered the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Today we remember events such as the space shuttle disaster, the Oklahoma City bombing, and, of course, 9/11.

When recalling my own vivid memories, I realize they are indeed emotional.

My first memory was one of terror. I was very young, because I was still sleeping in a crib. When I woke up, the blanket was completely covering me, and I couldn’t find my way out. I related this memory to my mother, who said our house was always chilly in the winter, so she fastened my blanket to the crib rails so I wouldn’t kick it off. It’s likely I somehow managed to get turned around under the blanket. To this day, I can’t stand anything over my face and head.

Another memory of childhood involves my vision. My parents found out I was extremely nearsighted when I was only three. I vividly remember riding home in the car wearing my new glasses and realizing trees had leaves and cows had faces. I also remember having breakfast with my husband after cataract surgery five years ago and being able to read a sign across the restaurant without my glasses.

Other vivid childhood memories are also emotional. I remember being accused of writing something derogatory about our teacher on the blackboard and being helpless to prove it wasn’t me. Perhaps that’s why I can’t tolerate movies about people who are charged with crimes they didn’t commit.

I clearly remember the day when my classmates started a forest fire. I attended a small country school with two grades in each room. I was in fifth grade when we went on a picnic in the woods near our school. Some of the sixth graders snuck off to smoke and didn’t put out their cigarettes carefully. Several acres were burned before the fire was finally extinguished. The experience didn’t prevent me from taking up the smoking habit later on, but I’ve always been extra sensitive to the smell of burning.

Of course there are many other memories that have stuck with me over the years. It will be interesting to see which ones are retained as I grow older. As my mother’s Alzheimer’s progressed, she lost all her memories of her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren, but she still remembered events from her childhood. Toward the end she became upset because her parents, who had passed away decades earlier, didn’t come to visit her.

Learn more about memories:

• How we remember and why we forget
• Brain regions influence our memories
• Neuroscientists identify how trauma triggers long-lasting memories in the brain
• New understanding of how we remember traumatic events
  
• Probing the mechanics behind how we remember
  
• The flavor of memories

What are your first memories? Are most of your early memories emotional?