This last week, I’ve been a little homesick. Chalk it up to the approaching holidays, or maybe due to the fact that I recently pulled out a folder full of essays that my grandfather wrote about his life, but I have wanted nothing more than to spend some quality time with my family.
Along with a few tears, my recent nostalgia has dusted off a few tid-bits of information that I now bring into question.
I mean, I know I have some interesting people in my family; and I know we all have some interesting stories… but I’m not sure I much I can trust my own memories. I don’t think I’m ever intentionally a liar, but I’m the first one to admit that I have the tendency to exaggerate. And sometimes I think those exaggerations might disguise themselves as memories.
For example: I know that my grandfather did, in fact, invent some form of “kiss-proof lipstick;” though I’m pretty sure that he did not invent milk chocolate…which is something I told my classmates for years. The fact is, I believe (and I could be wrong) that there is some sort of ingredient that both keeps lipstick on your lips and keeps chocolate solid… and that’s what he helped to invent.
I also have vivid memory of narrowly escaping a fire. In my head, we grabbed everything we could fit and piled onto the back of a trailer as we watched the flames chase us down a dirt road. Upon further examination of my memory, I’ve come to the conclusion that I either had a horrible nightmare once as a child, or my family was on a hayride and we drove passed a bonfire.
Now I’m wondering if other facts that I’ve chosen to believe are completely fabricated.
Like the fact that someone on my mom’s side of the family put a hex on my cousin’s and me. I don’t know where that one came from. I’ve told it to people for years, truly believing that was the cause of my horrible luck… but recently I mentioned it to my mom and she told me I was insane.
Now I am finding myself questioning EVERYTHING.
Did I really once run away under the cities sewers with a backpack full of kudos and capris suns? Did I almost get pushed into the creek by a rabid bull? Did I witness a whole herd of raccoons break into our ice chests during a camping trip? Did I actually even see a white fuzzy alien standing on my dog’s grave in the corner of my backyard?
Surely they all can’t be false memories. Who am I?
At least I know I had a huge crush on some guy named Steven in the 3rd grade. I know because my diary told me so. This is why I have to write everything down, people.