Blurred Lines

I have a memory. It's a nice one, but its edges are blurred. It feels like I'm looking at something without my glasses. I can see what it is, but not the details. When I look out my window first thing in the morning, I see a bush across the street surrounded by something white, and I imagine flowers. When I put on my glasses, I see white paint on the porch behind the bush. That's how this memory appears...

I am about nine or ten years old. There is snow on the ground--a lot of snow--and the sun makes it glitter like the front of a Christmas card. I am in a chair by the window, reading a book. The house is quiet, and I am content.

When I look at the picture in my mind, I can't tell if I'm actually sitting by a window reading on a snowy day, or if I'm reading a book in which the description of a snowy day is so vivid that I feel like I'm actually in it.

I've been thinking about memories--and memory--a lot lately. Pondering that picture of me reading by the window makes my brain hurt.

I recently shared a story about finding my dad putting together toys in the kitchen on Christmas Eve. In my telling, I said that I didn't know where my mom was; that Dad explained that Santa had dropped our stuff off and asked him to put it together. I wrote that it was Dad who preserved my Christmas fantasies of for several more years with that story. But I recently read back over older posts from Christmases past. In an earlier story, I had described that same Christmas Eve, but in that version, it was my mother who met me at the kitchen door and saved Christmas with the story of Santa asking for help. Both memories are real for me, although I realize the second one--the one where my mom is the hero--is more likely. Dad would have been too distraught at being called to elf duty to be able to come up with something that quickly.

So now I'm forced to wonder about all of my other vivid memories. How much of what I "remember" really happened, and how much have I written myself, and came to believe in my heart?

And how much does it really matter? If I were to list all of the memories of my childhood in two columns--one for happy ones and one for sad--the Happy column would take up many more pages than the Sad. I like it that way.

Truth is not only stranger than fiction, truth sometimes is fiction. And you probably shouldn't believe everything I tell you.

In the Interest of Blogging

In the interest of blogging in the New Year, I have spent the last four days--well, five if you count New Year's Eve, which I do--trying to think of something to write. I had woken up that morning with the phrase "in the interest of blogging" running around in my head.

My Awesome Husband Greg and I used to go to big parties on New Year's Eve. Huge parties. When he worked for WMAG Radio, they would rent a ballroom and hundreds of people would buy tickets to come to the parties. I was going to say that I don't remember the last one we went to, but that would be true of all of them. I don't remember much. The parties were fun. The days after the parties, not so much.

We don't don't party like that anymore. This year, we went to dinner and a movie. "Room." I had read the book and couldn't put it down. The movie did not stray from the book, and was equally intense. But the new Star Wars movie had also opened. That may have been why there were only two other couples in the theater. Or maybe everyone else was at a huge party.

Since it was New Year's Eve, we didn't go to a matinee. Nope. The Fischers may not party much anymore, but never let it be said that they don't know how to celebrate. On New Year's Eve, we pay full price. But that meant the movie didn't start until 7:30, so about halfway through, I was looking forward to this:

(There's more than one way to have a good time, and I say, "To each his own." Sometimes I just say, "Leave me alone.")

But I digress. I did finally think of a story to tell. I was reminded of it by the nearly empty movie theater. Greg and I were the first ones there. We had arrived early, so we could be sure to get the seats behind the rail where the handicapped people put their wheel chairs. You can put your feet up there without bothering anybody. When the next couple came in, Greg said, "Be quiet!" They started laughing, and the woman told us how she had actually had popcorn thrown at her once because she was powering down her phone when the movie started.

This is a story about another time we saw a movie that no one else wanted to see. That time it was "Then Came Polly," and my son was with us. First ones there again, we chose seats right in the center of the theater. When Dominic got up to get a drink, he made a big point of telling us not to let anyone take his seat. So when another couple came in, Greg beckoned them over and had them sit right next to us--in Dominic's seat. When he came back, you could see him shaking his head and thinking, Who sits right smack next to the only other people in the theater?! We all had a good laugh, and I'm glad, because it actually turned out to be funnier than the movie.

Maybe next New Year's Eve, we'll try to find a party so I'll have something to blog about. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying this quiet beginning to 2016.

Happy New Year, everyone.