Chapter 6 - Joshua and Stewart's story from 11-24-09

Chapter 6 - The Beginning of Knowing


While he slept, the cool, thin water swirled around him, and Stewart dreamed. Dreams were new to him. They weren’t scary, like some unknown world suddenly dropped on him from the sky. And they weren’t terrorizing like the hunting rock, or suspicious like the shadow. They were new…and old…at the same time.

In his dreams he swam in his pond and caught his meals and thought about what was beyond the green algae ceiling of his home. In his dreams he remembered things. Like small hands and big eyes and a gentle touch. He remembered clear, hard walls and tiny rocks and the smallest pond anyone could ever have to sit in. And he remembered shouting, being lifted very high in the air, and the fear of falling. He remembered the small hands reaching towards him. He remembered wanting them to take him down from the high place and put him back by his tiny pond beside the clear, hard walls. And he remembered sunshine and warm green algae and deep water filled with all sorts of places to hide. No shouting, no high places, and…no more small, warm hands and big eyes. He didn’t feel good about the last memory. Something about it was sad.

Stewart opened his eyes and looked at the surface of the pond. It glowed a faint light green. The sun was up, but not very high so the pond was still cool from the night. He crept to the edge of his shelf and looked down into the beyond. Not much moved in the darkness. The water swirled in slow circles around him as it made its way to the hunting rock. He looked up and then side to side before he pushed himself from the shelf and into the center of the pond. He was still the biggest swimming thing in it, now that the carp was dead.

He swam slowly, all his legs pressed against his sides and the base of his tail. The water slid past him as his whole body undulated from side to side, his long tail propelling him forward. When he saw something edible he swam faster, cornered it, and then ate it. But there were less and less things to catch. Even though it didn’t move, the hunting rock was better at catching its prey than he was. After all this time Stewart was sure the nasty rock took up the whole bottom of the pond.

Throughout the early morning he swam in lazy circles and thought. He did this every time the cool, thin water bathed him. It was in the swimming that he came to realize that he knew. And it was in the knowing that he was beginning to appreciate the cool, thin water. So it was this morning as well. He swam and he thought. As he circled the pond he stopped off on the few ledges and shelves that lined the pond, resting and investigating them. He rarely found anything new. But sometimes something would be different. Sometimes something from above would fall in. Other times a new plant would have started to grow. And still other times the shelf or ledge would have changed. The rock that made the walls of the pond was not very strong, though it was very flat. If the hunting rock sucked the water down too hard, or if the shadow hit the pond walls with its nasty stick, then the shelves and ledges often became different.

Stewart glided onto a shelf and settled himself. It was big and flat and broad. Nothing grew on it and nothing hid there because nothing grew there. It was a good place for resting and watching other things swim past, so he rested and he watched and he thought. And while he thought he realized that he knew something. He knew one of the voices from the day before. The smaller, higher voice. This bothered him and he lashed his tail. The voice had been angry and afraid. He had heard it before. It had been scared and angry then, as well. Remembering made him anxious and he lashed his tail again. Remembering made him fearful so he paced on the shelf. A dull, muted snap sounded behind him and he could feel the rock he stood on tilt and fall away. The old fear of falling from a high place flooded back so strong and sharp that he darted through the water like a fish to his sleeping shelf. He remembered small hands reaching and big eyes wide and watching. He knew. He knew. Those hands and those eyes had been taken somewhere.

He backed himself into the tightest part of his shelf and wedged himself into the smallest space he could find. His heart beat hard in his chest and this scared him even more than the knowing. Where had the hands and eyes gone? Why had they been yelling so scared outside of his pond?

Stewart pressed himself flat against the shelf and tried to become the rock he lay on. Suddenly his home was not safe and he didn’t know why. Suddenly he felt grief and fear and confusion all at once and he had no idea what they were. He closed his eyes and tried to think of other things, any things, things that were not himself.

Below his shelf, in the deepest part of the pond, the shale ledge that had cracked and fallen from beneath him settled against the outflow grate. The draw of water through the out flow pipe slowed. The system drew harder on the rock to no avail. Inside the Wurton Biologic Research Facilities building a message was generated and sent to a dozen email accounts regarding water pressure, time elapsed, estimated damage within an estimated time frame. No one noticed the email. They noticed the irritating alarm that beeped in the main control room 12 hours later. It was another 30 minutes before anyone actually responded.



~ Peace and knowing

Of truth and memory - a response

I received the following comment from Michael after posting “A Taste of Memory”. I decided to respond via a standard post when my reply to him began to grow the more I thought about the comment. Pardon my long-winded response and feel free to add a comment of your own.


Michael M. wrote:

Your preface [to "A Taste of Memory"] raises the interesting issue which contrasts the concepts of truth versus fact. One's truth is not necessarily their perceptions. The truth of the sweater color, for example, would be what it was, not what he or she remembered it to be. Saying that "It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies", suggests that everyone has their own truth, which suggests relativity, which in turn denies the definition of Truth.

I think that one difference we have is in the use of “truth” – lower case t - and “Truth” - upper case T. Truth with the upper case T is a metaphysical ideal – the essence of what is actual and factual and absolute. In contrast, truth, with a lower case t, is that which one believes to be accurate, but is still subjective to some degree, especially, I would argue, when referring to memory and to memoir.

Take the sweater color example again – If I am red-green color blind then my memory of the sweater being black may, in fact, be accurate, since it may look black to me. If I am never told differently by someone who sees it as red, I have no way of knowing any different and, therefore, would retain my belief as true. Let’s complicate it a bit more. If I am unable to see red, yet I am told my perception of it as black is wrong and the sweater is red according to another set of eyes, I have to decide if I will accept the new information as true or maintain that my original thought is. Whose truth is right? To what degree does the sweater’s color affect the purpose of the piece written?

A psychologist friend of mine and I had a discussion about childhood memories of an incident between a child’s parents that was witnessed by that child and the parents' memory of that same situation. The memory retained by the child of the incident, which is observed from a child’s point of view, processed by a child’s brain, and stored in that fashion, does not necessarily reflect the same memory (or truth, if you will) of the situation as recalled by the parents. Yet both child and parents will believe his/her memory of the situation to be true. Who is right?

As a teenager I remember having an extremely heated discussion with my mother about an incident that I was adamant happened to me during my 2nd grade year at school. She had no memory of the situation, though I clearly remembered coming home with a black eye and bloody lip. She told me that she would remember such an incident since it would have startled her badly to see me in such a state. Since she didn’t remember it it couldn’t have happened. I refused to accept her answer at the time, convinced I was absolutely right.

Writing “A Taste of Memory” got me thinking about that 2nd grade situation and I realized that I could no longer clearly recall the circumstances. Does that mean that it didn’t occur? Does it mean that it did, but I am losing access to the memory? Does it mean that my mother’s adamancy about not remembering something so significant colored my own ability to remember it? And how do the answers to these questions affect whether I write about it later and how?

At this point in my life, knowing myself as well as I do, I am fairly certain that what I did as a child was create a wonderful story, probably acting it out to some degree on the playground that day, and then incorporating it into my memory as real. Having done that, I would then defend it with vehemence to anyone who would challenge my recollection of it. As a child I firmly believed what I remembered as true. Today I would suggest otherwise. Yet which is right? And, how much does it matter?

At some point the writer must decide why s/he is writing – what is the purpose of the piece – so s/he can also decide how to write it. Questions arise regarding the accuracy of the memories written down, which memories have significance and which do not, what voice should be used in the retelling, how much should be told, and how much withheld.

I could attempt to verify my own story by searching for Allen and asking him to recall the day I wrote about, but I no longer remember his last name and have no idea what became of him since he moved away from that neighborhood a little over a year later. Does this complication and lack of corroboration detract from the story I shared? I say the story is true. You only have me to believe. Do you trust me well enough to accept my version?

We know that memoirs have been written that contain nothing but fact. They exist, in part, because that level of attention to detail was deemed important. Others have been written with great literary license and the apparent lack of accuracy made way for a more poignant story that connected deeply with readers. Still others find some way to successfully blend those two extremes. The point where “the truth” of a memoir becomes a problem is when the trust between writer and reader is some how broken.

The responsibility for this bond does not end with the writer. As readers we need to ask ourselves why we are reading the memoir we have chosen. That answer informs us of just how much trust we will put in the writer, what we expect from him/her in terms of accuracy and proof, what type of connection we need between the writer, his/her story, and ourselves. Our reason for choosing the piece in the first place is as important as why it was written. When these two things don’t mesh the issues of truth and trust and merit arise.

~ Peace and musings

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