Women Over Fifty

This is the way I remember it.  It was a cold day and there was going to be a parade.  My mother packed my little brother in his pram and with my other brother and I hanging onto the sides of the pram, we headed for the parade.  We were in Philadelphia and the parade included President Truman.  My mother was excited to be able to actually see the President in the flesh.  She wanted us to see it too.

I remember that people were packed thick along the street.  I remember viewing this from a very low level.  How old was I?  Grade school age, but I have no idea of the year.  I just remember coats and pants and purses and standing in the cold waiting to see the President.

Usually when there was a parade, people would let children squeeze up into the front position, but not today.  So when the president came along, I was still looking at the coats and pants and purses - a virtual forest of people looking away from me.  That’s all I could see.

I remember the excitement as he drew near.  People were calling out and waving flags.  At the last minute someone lifted me up so I could see for a brief moment.  I did see him - I think.  Did I really pick President Truman out or did my memory improve as time went on?  Certainly the face of President Truman became familiar to me.  My mother would remind me that I’d seen him in person.

Memories are tricky things.  What I remember of an event is different from what other people remember.  If my mother, my father, and my three brothers are all in the same place, our accounts will not be the same after a few years have passed.  Now days my brothers will say to me that I’m making it up.  It never happened that way.  Pretty soon we are all arguing about what really happened - or sitting by stonily knowing what WE remember is exactly how it happened.

My husband and I have a deal.  We don’t mess with each other’s memories.  If he’s telling a story about something I remember as well, I don’t correct him or try and change the “facts.”  The same goes when I’m telling the story.

My brothers and I don’t have the same deal.  Nor did my mother.  She’d tell me I was making it up.  I’d know it was true, down to the depths of my soul, but she’d say it wasn’t true.

The problem is we all truly believe we are telling the true account.  It’s a funny thing with memories.

Marilynne <who is now free to go to Curves> 

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