2008 15/09

Triggers

I never journaled growing up. I did write poetry and have kept some of those old poems but I really wish I had kept a journal all those years. Sure, I had a diary that has long since been destroyed but I have nothing to look back through to see where I was and how far I’ve come as a person. These thoughts made me start to think back at some of those memories growing up. The good ones, the bad ones, the ones that seem so pointless and trivial now but are still part of who I am. I’m hoping to find the time, soon, to write all these memories down so, in another 30 years, I can actually look back at them. The memories from growing up and the memories from now. Yes, I know that the stories and feelings won’t be the same because I’ve had many years to process those feelings and emotions, but, for some odd reason, I feel the need to put down on paper all those memories swirling through my head. For instance…

There are certain foods or smells that often trigger memories for me. The smell of lilacs reminds me of the old school house that was next door to the house I grew up in. The smell of cut grass reminds me of those summer days when my sister and I would play for hours on our old rusty swing set. Most often though it is the smell of cooked peas and peanut butter cookies that draw me back to childhood. They remind me of my great-grandma’s house.

We would go to my great-grandma’s house nearly every Sunday afternoon when I was a child. She lived in an old farm house where my great-uncle kept his cows. I can remember almost every part of the house. The kitchen/dining room where my grandma and aunts would be preparing Sunday dinner and where we would all gather around the table to eat. The room, which I can only assume would have been the dining room had the table not been placed in the kitchen, where my sister and I would play. And the living room where my uncles would watch football. I remember the rubber, pastel mats by the sink that had been faded by the sunlight and the flowers that grew outside the kitchen windows. My great-uncle would take us out to the barn to see the new calves and my siblings and I would play in the culvert down the road.

The sad thing about this memory is that, as much as I remember about the house and what we did there, I do not remember by great-grandma.

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