What Makes a Memory...

Hi. It's been a while! Did you miss me?  For once, my lack of blog hasn't been due to having nothing to talk about, I'm not actually sure why I've not written anything for a while.  Never mind though, I'm here now!

When you think about it, human memory, and indeed, memories, as strange things. They are real, but yet, somehow not, an incorporeal snapshot of a moment in time.  People tend to think of their memories as being solid, inviolable, not a subject for consideration - we know what we remember, and what we remember, we know. Is that really the case though?

Memory is very subjective - some people have good memories, some bad, most, like me, somewhere in the middle. I should point out at this juncture, I am very aware of the difference between a memory, and something you remember - the two aren't exactly the same.  Think of them as being like two species from the same genus. People like to think of their memories as being absolute - how could they be anything but, the will argue - we know what we have experienced.  A lot of the time, yes, you probably do, but, equally, a lot of your memories will be either faded, partial or flat out wrong, hazed by the distance of time.  How many of you remember your first day at school?  I mean really remember, remember the feelings, the sensations, the whole thing. I can't. I remember what I think my first day at school was like, but I couldn't stand up in court and swear an oath that it was absolutely correct. That said, I can barely remember what I had for dinner yesterday!

The reason this topic has been on my mind recently is because I've noticed that various strange memories from my past are popping up, unbidden, random and generally trivial.  For example, why did my mind decided to pop a memory of the old public conveniences in Dunfermline into my head. What use does that serve?  Similarly, why is it when I think of my late father, the first memory of him which pops up is of us playing tennis when I was about 10?  (You may think that this memory is inspired by Wimbledon, it's not, it doesn't matter when in the year I think of him, at some point the memory of tennis will pop up). I can't remember in any detail my first kiss, something you'd think would be permanently hot-wired to the front of my mind (her name was Lisa, we went to school together, her dad knew my dad, other than that, I remember nothing about it, other than it happened), yet I remember in vivid detail the first time I was able to ride my bike without  stabilisers.  Was learning to ride my bike a more momentous occasion than my first kiss?  I don't think so. If it was though. then surely passing my driving test would eclipse riding my bike? Apparently not, for my memory of my driving test is vague, other than being told I passed.

For the record, the day I learned to ride my bike was, fittingly, the day I did a cycling proficiency thing at primary school. I was in Primary 2, it was a sunny day, and the playground of Townhill Primary had (well, still has) a slope, going from the school building to the bottom wall. I'd tried time and again that day to ride in a nice straight line, turn and  go back and then stop.  The proficiency part of the test, the practical, if you like, took place on a wide stretch of pathway between the main school building and the huts at the back, and I was struggling. As my time to sit, and undoubtedly fail, my cycling proficiency exam drew closer, I remember being actually scared, so, in one last attempt to somehow overcome whatever was going on in my head, I pushed myself along with my feet on the ground, in the manner of an old velocipede from Victorian times.  As I got to the slope something compelled me to lift both feet and I was away, I was freewheeling down the slope, turned and then whatever force coaxed my feet from the ground then prompted me to start peddling. Before I really knew what was happening, I was riding my bike up and down the playground thinking that this was the greatest thing in the world, ever, and would not be equalled, my blonde locks flowing in the summer breeze.  Newly emboldened, I sent back to where the tests were being done, went once round to show I could pedal, turn and brake, and when I got back to the teacher, promptly fell off.  I still got my certificate though, so I guess there was a happy ending!

I still don't know why that one incident has such a lasting grip on my memory, although at least I know why it has been in my head of recent times - one of my former primary school classmates became my FB friend a few days ago, triggering a mini tsunami of memories from those distant, halcyon days. A time where the world seemed a lot different, where summers were long and hot, where the single worst insult anyone could utter was that you had an ugly schoolbag, and where, for some reason, it was considered an absolute anathema to be accused of the heinous crime of kissing a girl!

As so often happens, I start writing these things with no idea, however vague, of how it will end.  Most of the time I'm not even sure what I'm going to write about until I'm half way through, at which point I usually make the fatal mistake of starting to think about it, which just causes problems. So, I will leave you with this - yes, memories are precious, but the memory you are going to make tomorrow - that's the most precious one of all.