Big Memories

We had a chance yesterday to visit the first place my daughter called home. The first placed she lived when we brought the tiny six pound bundle home from the hospital almost fifteen years ago. Her first home and the first real home my wife and I owned together. We rented one when we were first married, and we bought a singlewide trailer to live in while we built this house, but this was our first real home as a family. Even though my daughter was three years old when we moved away, she doesn’t remember living there, at all; I hoped the visit would make something click.

My wife and I hadn’t been there in almost twelve years, so we were excited to visit as well. This is an unusual home in that it was built in an old fashioned way. I touched every board and nail while building it, and really the only thing we hired a subcontractor to do was dig the septic tank. Everything is so specialized and regulated today I’m not sure this is even possible to do anymore, and when I think about the work involved, I’m not so sure it’s a good idea anyway. Toward the end of construction I was beginning to think that I would be buried beside the home instead of ever hanging my clothes in the closet!

Well it didn’t jog any memories in my daughter, but it was certainly memory overload for my wife and me. Of course a few things had been changed, but it was mostly just like we left it; put our stuff back in and we wouldn’t miss a beat. But what seems so weird is that while I remember what it looks like, I couldn’t tap in at all to actually doing any of the work. I couldn’t remember why I had done some of the things I did; it felt like somebody else had done the work. Maybe if I had realized just how much work it was going to be I would have never attempted it in the first place! Kind of like closing your eyes and holding your breath before you jump in the lake. Downplay the effort to be able to complete (or at least begin) the task!

We were kind of quiet on the ride home. I could sense my wife’s mind was racing in all directions like mine was, and I think neither of us wanted to talk. But just before we made it back to our current home she said to no one in particular, “seems smaller doesn’t it?” I just mumbled an “uh huh” or something, but I knew what she meant. Our memories of things make them larger than life. Those mansions our grandparents lived in turn out to be regular little houses; those beautiful motels we vacationed in are now small and dated and that outstanding dinner at a faraway restaurant is simply a meal. Maybe we should not re-visit these places; maybe we should just enjoy the memories in their distorted fashion. Either way, I think this is simply proof that truly loving something makes it large!