A Taste of Memory

Memoir is the retelling of moments in the life of the writer. Accuracy is often a concern for both the writer in the telling and the reader in the receiving of the moment given. Because memoir is, by its very nature, of the mind and memory, it is reasonable to say that only so much accuracy can be expected. Writers are human, humans are far from perfect, and, as such, their memories can be anything from quite accurate to down right wrong. This said it can make one wonder if a memoir is worth reading if the accuracy of the recounted moment(s) is questionable.

I would suggest that memories are subjective and fallible. They really can only be known truthfully from the point of view of the one relating the memory. Even when memories are shared by more than one individual it is hard to say whose is correct and whose is not. A varying degree of both accuracy and inaccuracy on behalf of all involved is really the only "correct" answer. I remember the first time I met my husband one way, he remembers it another. We will share similar details, but we will differ on others. Does this make his recount wrong and mine right? What if I remember wearing a black turtleneck sweater and he remembers a red one? How important is it that he was shy or that I was?

It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies. The writer wishes to share some aspect of his or her life with the reader and in the honest retelling of those moments that truth is given. The key is the honest retelling. Adherence to the truth to the best of the writer's ability as the writer understands it is what the reader is seeking and what the reader expects.

Two versions of the following memoir piece exist. To me both are accurate, though I know they have different details. Perhaps it is not in the details (which most likely have been conglomerated over time into a few strong memories), but rather in the theme, emotions, and general feel of the memory that the truth of it lies. What I am giving you is a glimpse of what I remember as a seven year old child during the summer between first and second grade. It is the truth as I remember it some thirty-odd years later. Does the fact that I may not be relating 100% accurate memories affect how you read it? Do you worry that I am handing you something of less value because I am admitting my fallibility? Or, do you read what I offer with human eyes that know your own fallibility and, instead, find the truth of the piece within your own experience?


Juicy Fruit® Summer


Allen and I walked along Grand River Avenue, buckets in hand, carefully stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk like all seven and eight year olds do in order to keep their mothers safe from injury. It was early June. School was out and the summer was ours to do with as we wanted. At the top of our list was crayfish hunting.

The Grand River wound around the backside of our neighborhood and called to us like a siren. There were thousands of fossils to be found all along the waterline, the imprints of seashells and small, many-legged things that had died in the prehistoric mud that eventually became the shale in the river’s bed. Spotted salamanders lurked under the rotting forest debris, snails and any number of strange bugs, those more exotic than the common ones on our backyards, hid under the bark of fallen logs and beneath the low leaves of plants we didn’t know the names of. And there were crayfish. Miniature freshwater lobsters hiding under the flat river rocks and shooting out backward to escape capture, their claws extended and ready to snip fingers.

Our buckets were plastic. Mine the half-gallon ice cream variety, Allen’s the institutional-sized peanut butter kind, although the smallest version of something so large. His bucket had a white plastic cylinder at the apex of the handle to make carrying it more comfortable. Mine didn’t. Allen’s could hold a dozen crayfish easily. Mine, about eight. His bucket was white and the peanut butter label had long ago peeled away leaving behind the tenacious adhesive residue that collected and retained dirt no matter how many times you scrubbed it. The body of my bucket was orange and still had its lid, the imprinted label telling everyone to “put a tiger in your tummy”.

We kept the buckets at Allen’s since his house was closer to the path to the river. Keeping them there also made it easier to go to the river even when I wasn’t supposed to. We went several times in a month with my mother, but we also went many times without her, covertly, like spies.

I had permission to play at Allen’s that day, but not to go to the river. So we played and fooled around for as long as we could stand before the idea of the river and the thrill of catching crayfish finally won out. We gathered our tools – the buckets, some cookies, a canteen of water – and decided how to sneak away.

Sneaking away from Allen’s house wasn’t hard. His mother was never there to stop us and his older sister was so tired from working that she would actually give us gum as a bribe so we would go away. We trooped into his house, collected our payment, and trooped back out again, Juicy Fruit® gum filling our mouths with saliva and sweet fake fruit flavor. On our way out of the yard we grabbed our buckets, two good long sticks, and set off down the path that would lead us to Grand River and all its treasures.

The forest between our neighborhood and the river was not really that deep, nor was it dark or scary or truly dangerous. But to us it wase all those things and more, especially when we were making the trip alone. For some 500 feet we were surrounded on all sides by trees and low brush, chattering squirrels and screaming blue jays. Starlings and sparrows flew across the path, and once in a great while one of us might see a raccoon or a red fox. More often then not we would see a few cats from the nearby houses out hunting for mice, voles, or shrews. They would give us irritated looks, like we were intruding on their territory, and then hurry off into the woods.

Allen and I would carry our buckets in one hand, our long sticks in the other. One of us would carry the cookies and the other the canteen of water. We were prepared for anything. And you needed to be prepared. We had been told many times to be careful of snakes and loose dogs. The sticks would protect us from these. We watched the ground, careful not to step on any leaves in clusters of three. If we had to we could swing our buckets at anyone who tried to kidnap us or take our provisions away. Allen led because he was older. I brought up the rear since I had really good hearing and could tell if we were being followed.

As we walked we imagined our buckets into birch bark containers, sewn together with rawhide lacing and waterproofed with pine tar. The sticks we carried were tipped with strong spear points like the ones made by the Erie Nation that lived here so long ago. We were on a quest for food to feed our families and to gather anything else we could find that might be useful. We were savvy, skilled, and fearless. Until something behind us broke a few too many sticks as it walked through the woods. That’s when we started running.

I remember stopping for a second, swallowing and tapping Allen on his shoulder with my stick, now suddenly too small and lacking a sharp spear point. He turned and looked at me, his eyes wide. I remember the entire forest growing silent so that all we could hear was our own breathing and being startled at how loud it was. I watched Allen’s eyes grow wider and wider as he looked past my head to the path behind me. My skin crawled at the strange high-pitched fore-whine that came before he shouted and then turned and ran.

I was a year younger than Allen and about eight inches shorter, but I had no trouble following him at high speed down the trail to the river. I ran so hard and so fast that when Allen stumbled over a root I careened into him and we both fell down. We scrambled back to our feet and ran, clutching the handles of our buckets, our sticks left behind on the path. We came bursting through the last line of trees and into the sunlight bathing the river’s edge. The sand spit slowed us down abruptly and we both fell to our knees, our legs and feet unable to keep up with our terrified forward momentum.

I turned and looked at Allen. His face was red and covered in sweat and sand. He was breathing hard and staring at the ground where he had fallen. He glanced at me and blinked.

“What did you see?” I asked him between huffing breaths.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? I saw you’re eyes! You screamed.”

The strangest sound came snorting out of his nose. “Yea. It was a pretty good scream, wasn’t it,” he laughed and then grinned at me. “But yours was better.”

“I didn’t cream,” I snapped.

“You did, too. All the way here. Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!” he mimicked and then snorted into a fit of the giggles. “And your face! I bet you thought a bear was after us!”

I sat down on the sand and gave him a dirty look. “No I didn’t,” I said and then pushed myself up from the ground and picked up my bucket. “I knew you were joking.”

“You did not,” he replied and got up, brushing sand off his legs.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I did, too,” I growled and chewed my gum hard.

He looked at me funny for a second, then I could see his tongue moving around inside his mouth, pushing out his cheeks and lips. “Hey, my gum's gone,” he muttered.

“Ha! You swallowed it. See, you too were scared.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he said shaking his head. “How come you still have yours?”

I thought about it for a moment and could feel my cheeks get hot as I remembered. “Eeee. Eeee. Eeee,” I said softly, my back teeth clamped tightly down on my gum so I wouldn’t swallow it.

Allen started laughing all over again.

“Shut up,” I muttered. “At least I still have mine.”

He wiped his eyes and grinned at me. “It was worth a piece of gum to see the look on your face. Double to hear that scream.”

“Good, then you owe me a piece of gum,” I snarled and stomped off to search the shallows for crayfish.

For the remainder of that summer I heard “Eeee, eeee, eeee” a lot, but I also walked to the river behind Allen on many occasions with two sticks of gum in my mouth instead of just one, the extra sweet fake fruit flavor nearly dripping down my chin.

~ Peace and nostalgia