All Memories Aren't the Same

My extended family got together last week for a memorial service for my mom. As usual, the room was full of relatives I hadn’t seen for decades, some I have never met, and others that I didn’t even know of. Of course, we reminisced, grieved together, and caught up on years of our lives, but then, that’s what one tends to do at such times. We planned a family reunion that all of us knew would never happen, and we all agreed that only funerals bring most families together these days. There are just too many weddings, births and graduations once the family gets older and dispersed. I did learn something, though. Even though some of us shared experiences growing up, our memories don’t always match very well, and even when they do, different versions have been passed down to the next generation. In fact, sometimes, no version at all has been passed. Here’s a case in point. One of my first cousins, some 4 years my junior, teamed up with my own brother and another first cousin, all of whom were within a year of each other, to swipe some honey from my Uncle Teddy’s beehive. They were all about 5 at the time. Their prank was discovered when my brother showed up at my grandparents front porch with a handful of honeycomb, the honey dripping off his arm and elbow. His two partners in crime trailed along as though it were something that happened every day. To say it caused a riot would be an understatement. The upshot was that three little boys were in trouble, and my uncle set out to put the hive box, which they had tipped over, back upright. When my aunt got him to the hospital, the emergency room crew pulled over 100 stingers out of his forehead alone. He was just lucky the hospital was only 5 miles away. My kids all knew the story – none of my cousin’s sons had ever heard it. The other example is different, but only slightly. I managed to get lost in a swamp for an entire day when I was 5 years old. My uncle Tommy found me as night was setting in, and carried me on his shoulders several miles back to my grandparents’ house. He rescued me, and all of his children knew it. What he “neglected” to tell them, though, was that he was the one who helped me get lost to begin with. Selective memory strikes. Needless to say, I filled in the gaps with his children, much to Tommy’s chagrin.