I distinctly remember my mother's answer, when I asked her what drives my grandmother's day-to-day happiness now that her eternal companion has passed on. My mother wisely commented, "Her memories. As we age, our memories are such happy places to go to and reflect upon."
Though such a statement didn't fully uphold it's enveloping meaning on my psyche until recently, I have so learned to appreciate my mother's wisdom. I used to view memories as whimsical, and of little importance; now? Now I see them as an integral part of an experience. We look forward to an event, as the excitement leading up to the event is just as, if not more so, exciting as the actual event, then the event occurs, and then all of a sudden it's all over and we are forced to move on. That's where memories make their mark. That's how we can continue to revel in that exciting event. And if the memory is unpleasant, that is how we can learn, grow, adapt, better ourselves. (Yikes! I apparently am feeling a bit philosophical in the wee hours of this morning).
I was running with my mother the other day, and as we ran through Bown Crossing, past the Tavern restaurant, we spotted my dear friend from my younger years, Rachel Beck, serving the outdoor tables. We waved and smiled, and my spirits felt so lifted. Of all the memories I have of, and made with, Rachel, the first one that came to mind was this fond, but comical, remembrance:
Seventh grade: Met at a friend's birthday party in Surprise Valley and we became inseparable. The evening soon morphed into two twelve-year-old girls laying across one another on the trampoline, giggling at silly self-verbalized 'jokes', and the unveiling of my first, but so not necessary despite my age, padded bra!
My memories then took me on a journey.. I was reminded of dinner at home prior to going to the birthday party. Being so intrigued by my newly purchased chest, all I could do was stare in astonishment at the mirror, clearly not comprehending that the 'woman' staring back at me with lady lumps and a defined waistline, was... me. Sigh, if only the mother-mandated make-up law of only blush and lip gloss at sub-teenage years would have made up for my face. Or if my long string-bean, all-to-evident knee-bone legs would have better complimented my size ten boats I called feet.
My mother, being so proud of her job well done in working her bosom-bracing magic, proceeded to drag me by the arm away from the mirror. Still in a daze as I tried to steal one more glance at myself in the glass, I wasn't sure what my mother needed of me- help keep the other 'kids' in the house in line? Try on different shades of lipstick to decide which one accented my needing-to-be-purchased stilettos best? Clearly, my mom wouldn't need me for anything other than grown-up woman stuff.
Much to my unpleasant surprise, she stopped me right in front of someone who was the last person on my mind with whom I would reveal my fake endowments, my father. What? Just as quickly as the word ran through my mind, my mother cheerfully asked with a wide grin on her face, "Well what do you think, Michael?!" WHAT? "Aww, MOM!", is all I could muster, as I abruptly turned and ran away, back to the mirror.....
And so I apologize to any male readers who may have considered this post information overload, but I know everyone has a story like the one I recounted (but if by happenstance, you do not, all I can say is just wait until you procreate. Awkward puberty stories are bound to happen). We all can relate, and (hopefully) we followed our parent's advice by looking back on a situation seeming serious at that present time, and laugh. I know I did. And the lightness of foot I found in my next running mile along Parkcenter Boulevard appreciated it.
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