I pride myself on having a great memory for what was happening around me while growing up. Little details about my mom and dad, my sisters and brother and classmates of mine at Saint Cecilia Grade School come up in vivid color. Compared to many kids who grew up in the 40s and 50s, my life was pretty sweet. I learned quickly the role of children: to obey your parents and teachers, to be seen and not heard and if hungry, fix yourself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
How strange it is to recollect the past with my two older sisters, Kelly and Connie, who had the same parents, lived in the same apartments and attended the same schools. Their memories of our days in Boone and Ames, Iowa, are often different from mine. It’s as if they’re making up a bunch of stuff and forgetting the important details of our youth.
Then I remember advice from an expert. I am lucky to have a friend in Scott Stanley, a research professor at the University of Denver who told me long ago that believing I have the accurate scoop on what happened years ago is poppycock. I look back on the good old days through a Don Kuhl lens that is probably quite distorted. My siblings have their own lenses and come up with different stories completely. If I’m attempting to prove a point in my favor, my “infallible memory” can lead to all kinds of confusion and maybe even hurt feelings.
I’ve learned it’s best to enjoy the wonderful memories my sisters share and, when appropriate, weave my remembrances into their stories of our childhood.