Childhood Memories Part 2

The day after I started this post, memories started flooding my mind! Now as I lay here tonight, I'm having trouble remembering what I had remembered! (Go figure.) Oh well. I'll sit here for a moment and see if anything else comes to mind...

6. I vividly remember one summer day when I was about four years old when a man without a mustache walked into the kitchen through the garage door, swept my mom into his arms and gave her a huge kiss. I'm not sure if I heard something and came into see what was going on or if I was already in the kitchen, but what I do remember is the fact that I had no idea who this strange man was who was kissing my mom. In my little mind, my dad wasn't home, so there shouldn't be a man kissing my mom! The thing is that it was my dad-- I just didn't recognize him. He'd been gone that summer, away at grad school in Indiana for the past two months or so and while he was there, he shaved off his trademark mustache, but I had no idea! To my recollection, he hasn't shaved that mustache off since.

7. Speaking of when my dad was away at school, I remember the very first time I ever cooked dinner by myself. Again, I was about four years old and one evening decided that I really wanted to cook dinner for our family. When I asked my mom if I could do so, she said, "Well, what are you going to make?" I remember saying with confidence, "Bologna surprise," I dish I made that up on the spot. I had no idea what I'd make before I asked her if I could make dinner, but that was my idea when she asked me. I must have chosen it because 1) I LOVED bologna and 2) surprise meant that I could make it up as I went. When my mom asked me (probably stifling a chuckle) what bologna surprise was, I responded very matter-of-factly that it was bologna stuffed with cheese, rolled up and secured with a toothpick, then heated in the toaster oven so the cheese melted (like she should have known what that was...). She said, "Ok...well, what are you going to serve with it?" I quickly glanced up above the fridge and saw a bag of plain Ruffles. "Potato chips," I responded, because you know, it just complements it so well...

I don't know why she let me go through with it, but she did. And I remember watching those bologna rolls in the toaster oven, making sure they didn't burn. I also remember how good those things tasted! We all ate them for dinner--even my mom. And while I'm sure she ended up having something else to eat after we'd all gone to bed, to this day, I appreciate the fact that she not only let me go through with it, but she also tasted my creation. From that day on, my mom let me experiment in the kitchen all the time. I think she instilled confidence in me by letting me come up with creative recipes (which I'm sure were sometime were downright disgusting), and never made me feel like my ideas were silly. To this day, I love to experiment in the kitchen, but my ingredients have become a bit more sophisticated than bologna.

8. I am scared of the moon. Or, well, perhaps it's more accurate to say that I used to be scared of the moon, but sometimes I still get a little creeped out by it. I blame it on my father. My dad liked to pick on me, most likely because he knew I was an easy target. (Wonder where my brothers learned that from?) On nights when we happened to be in the car when the moon was especially bright (and usually nearly full), he would say to me in a sort of sing-song voice, "I see the moon and the moon sees me!" to which I would reply, "No! I don't want the moon to see me!" I hated the idea of the moon watching me. I could see a face in the moon, a face that I can still see to this day. I hated the way it would follow me; it didn't matter which way the car turned or how many trees or houses we passed by that blocked it from view. Whenever the road cleared, there it was, peering into the car window watching me. I couldn't escape it. Oh, how it scared me! By the way, my dad still teases me about that.

9. I don't remember going on many shopping trips with my mom, other than trips to the grocery store or to Target. Shopping for clothes wasn't something that we did very often when I was little, except for making the trek to Livermore every once in awhile to go to the big Goodwill store there. I remember the day when my mom told me I shouldn't be telling people where we got our clothes; up until then, I thought Goodwill was a pretty awesome place. We got to go pick out just about anything we liked, and we always came home with some great treasure. I remember one day I was playing with one of the neighbor girls, proudly wearing my new sweatshirt I had just gotten at Goodwill. It was yellow with puffy lambs on it I think (or something equally disgusting by today's standards). At the time, it was very in and I had wanted one badly. Anyway, my neighbor friend complemented me on the sweatshirt and asked me where I got it. I told her that I had picked it out at the Goodwill store in Livermore. My mom was outside watering or something and overheard our conversation. Later that evening, she told me that I didn't need to tell my friends where my clothes came from, that the Goodwill store was our little secret discovery and that no one else needed to know about it. I think that was the moment when I realized our family was a bit different than others.

We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up, but I really didn't notice until after that day. My mom didn't take me clothes shopping much, but she didn't really need to. All my clothes either came from the Goodwill store or from those magical brown paper bags that my mom kept at the top of the hall closet. I lived in hand-me-downs, and I loved them. Some good friends of my parents had two little girls that were a bit older than me and they would always pass their clothes on to me after they'd outgrown them. I remember the days when my mom would pull a bag down as being some of the best days ever; I loved trying things on and seeing how I looked in them. We used to make such a mess in the hallway, because for some reason, that's where I always seemed to try things on.

I have such an appreciation for second hand things now; things that have a history, things that are well-used and well-loved, things that are appreciated far more than they would be if they were easier to come by.

10. Ok, here it is: memory number 10. I remember my Grandpa Guzman. He passed away when I was 11, just before Christmas that year, I believe. I remember hearing the news, and I remember wondering why I couldn't cry. Thinking about him now, remembering how I felt when he died and thinking about how things changed in the aftermath of his death, all of it brings tears to my eyes, but I barely shed one tear at the time of his death. Maybe I was in a state of shock, or maybe it just didn't have the same effect on me then as it does now.

When I remember him, I remember a jolly man who always lit up with a smile when I came into the room. He used to have new teddy bears waiting for me when we'd visit he and Nonie up in Auburn. He would take my brothers and I fishing in his pond and let us ride his tractor; he would give us piggy back rides and take us on hikes on his property. I can hear that strange noise he used to make, the noise that sounded like he was working on getting something out of his teeth. I can smell the toasted bagel and the port wine cheese spread that he loved to have at probably any time of the day. And I remember his hands, his leathery skin and the way his hugs felt--strong, secure, safe. Most of all, I remember what our family was like before we lost him.

My grandmother (Nonie) changed forever when he died. She was never a terribly warm, outwardly loving person, but after she lost him, bitterness took hold of her heart and affected her interactions with everyone from then on. I understand it; losing a husband would be beyond painful and life would be excruciatingly lonely after that. I've learned that perhaps she has always been like this, but now that she's on her own, it's a bit more obvious. She pushes people away. Drives them away, really. It started with my Uncle Al and his family, and now it's moved on to my family. I used to think that this would have never happened had my grandfather been alive; but when I said this to my dad one day, he told me that Grandpa Guzman wasn't really the man I knew. As a grandfather, that was the real him, but as a person, as a man, as a father, that wasn't him. Apparently he had an iron fist and on more than one occasion belittled my father's choices in life. He wasn't an easy man to love for my dad, but for me? He was a hero. I love that his memory is pure in my heart and that I have those special moments of joy with him. I don't have that with Nonie. And I tried. I tried many times to get close to her, but all I found was rejection. I'm not sure where I"m going with this part of the memory. It's not particularly good, and it is certainly intertwined with memories from the not so distant past. I guess this is the one that wanted to get out tonight, though.

And now that I've gotten the ball rolling, I find that I have several more memories from before I hit Junior High. I prove the statistic wrong, which was the whole point, right? I guess I shouldn't be surprised; in my family, I seem to be the one who remembers things, the one who corrects others when they've got a story wrong, or the one who people ask about an insignificant detail just because they know I'll remember. I'm the one with the memory. Sometimes it's a blessing, as memories are so often wonderful, and sometimes it's not, as memories are also often hurtful or confusing.

There really is a lot to be learned from memories, things we can learn about why we are the way we are.