By J.B. Lester
According to Wikipedia, the average person starts memories between 3 and 4 and some as early as two and a half years of age. This makes me happy since my grandson Cooper just turned 3 and I am 73. I spend a lot of time with Cooper, and I want him to remember his Grampy. I want him to remember swimming in the backyard plastic pool and having me read to him “The Pigeon Finds A Hot Dog” before bedtime. I want him to remember me quizzing him with flashcards and asking him to spell his name. I want him to remember singing Itsy Bitsy Spider with his Grampy and Nini. According to experts his memory is kicking into full gear now and much of what we say and do will become a memory for him. So, I had better be careful with my words and actions. He is repeating everything everyone says. There was a TV commercial playing the other day and Cooper was just walking by into the hallway and I heard him repeat “libido”. His mom and I laughed, but it just shows he listens and soaks up everything. Memories and language are now being formed.
My first memory was around age 3 when my family was on a picnic and a thunderstorm hit. I clearly remember hiding under the picnic table with my brother and mom and dad as the thunder and lightning struck nearby and the heavy rain pelted down. It was very scary and etched in my mind forever. Luckily, I grew to love storms and it did not scar me from enjoying weather events. The experts say we don’t remember much from those very early years, and they call it childhood amnesia. Maybe good, maybe unfortunate.
As we grow older, we want to be remembered by our children and grandchildren. I hope all my grandchildren, Cooper, Jackson, Joey and Vivianne will remember their Grampy and Nini. I remember my Nana Barnard who had plastic on her couches for our frequent visits. I remember my Papaw Lester mostly because he lived to be 99 and told me of the time he had a hole in one in golf. My Mamaw “Mittie” Lester died in her 50s when I was just 4 but I remember a tree swing in her backyard and her loving smile. My Papaw Barnard was an engineer and told stories of how he worked out in the sunny fields of Oklahoma when he was a young man and got so tan that when they would drink too much after work he would end up in the segregated drunk tank. He told us that story when we were older and not children. I also remember my great-grandmother “Granny” who lived in Ashley Illinois where the Hollywood candy bar factory operated back in the day. We could smell the chocolate in the air when we came to town to visit. Granny made the best peach cobbler and had a lump on her forehead that she said was from an accidental bullet from her childhood. I always wondered about that story.
Starting today, I am going to start thinking long and hard about what memories I want my grandchildren to have of me. Or maybe I will just let life write the script. I do want them to remember me for my famous grilled cheese sandwiches. Just ask Jackson. He can’t get enough. This is what memories are made of…two pieces of bread, a slice of cheese, some butter in the skillet and a healthy dash of love.