| Humor Non-Fiction posted March 20, 2009 | Chapters: |
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Written about my husband when we were younger.
A chapter in the book Chasing the Elusive Dream
Selective Amnesia
by BethShelby
I think my husband suffers from selective amnesia. If it weren't for a handful of isolated incidents forever etched into grooves of his brain, one might conclude from his recollections, he was probably zapped into existence as a full grown adult.
I don't have an exceptional memory, but I have retained bits and pieces of almost everything of any significance that happened to me from age three on, and some things earlier than that. It seems to me, short of being dropped on his head and thereby erasing whatever happened up to that point, there should be something more in his memory bank other than the pain of being teased about the hole in the seat of his pants at the tender age of five.
Truthfully, there are a few other things. He remembers being reprimanded by a teacher, for standing up and yelling at someone outside the window while class was going on. He remembers being scolded by his father for scooting across the floor on his behind. attempting to impress his uncle's new bride. (That may be how he got the hole in the seat of his pants.) He hasn't forgotten the time he was late for class and nearly decapitated himself by running into a clothes line. He also remembers the time he ran half a mile home, fleeing the slingshot hanging out of his back pocket, while thinking he was being pursued by a deadly rattler. Then, there is the memory of "Katsy" or rather, he remembers begging to go to "Katsy's" house. Nobody in his family ever figured out who Katsy was, much less where she lived, but those meager anecdotes about sum up all that's survived of his childhood.
The next time his train of recall starts up, he was a full grown soldier boy, heading for war. He remembers the war years well, mainly because he had knots in his stomach for two years from fear of flying shrapnel or the possibility of stepping on a land mine.
As nearly as I can determine, in order for him to consider an event memorable, it must involve pain, embarrassment, fear, or something totally non-existent. Given that, I have to consider it a positive thing that he remembers so little of our courtship and our numerous years of marriage. All the adorable things the children did or said are part of my memory, not his. He remembers their accidents, the skeletons they dragged from our proverbial closet and displayed for the amusement of our friends, and the fights in the back seat when "I'm going to count to ten" stopped working, and he occasionally managed to subdue them by threatening to stop the car.
However, what stands out more vividly than any other tidbits of family history, in his cache of recollections are our vacations, or more accurately, selective parts of them. He can conjure these jewels from the depths of his grey matter with total recall, causing all the emotions he felt at the time to come flooding to the surface. Those are times we tiptoe and try to stay out of his way.
I guess the reason these memories are so much clearer than the others are because they involve a combination of stimuli. Pain, from the inescapable headache that follows a day of driving and listening to me yell at four hyper children, who were attempting to destroy each other, in the back seat. Fear, that maybe he might totally lose control and actually do bodily harm to one of them (or me). Embarrassment, caused by the likelihood we might be evicted from a restaurant, because one of them had initiated a food fight. But central to all, is his creative, but paranoid, imagination, which convinces him that I once deliberately set out to cause his demise, by nearly running out of gas in the middle of the scenic route, and then, choosing not to find a motel room instantly, when he informed me that his head was bursting, and he didn't think he was long for this world. Even Alfred Hitchcock couldn't have devised such an ingenious murder plot.
Since that time, every year when vacation rolls around, we've had to deal with the resurrection of this cerebral demon of his, which threatens to call a halt to any plans I might have to get away a few day. Personally, my own demon sleeps. I remember peaceful mountains and carefree days. Reality sets in some time later, usually when we've traveled too far to turn back.
So be it. Perhaps I have my own brand of selective amnesia.
I think my husband suffers from selective amnesia. If it weren't for a handful of isolated incidents forever etched into grooves of his brain, one might conclude from his recollections, he was probably zapped into existence as a full grown adult.
I don't have an exceptional memory, but I have retained bits and pieces of almost everything of any significance that happened to me from age three on, and some things earlier than that. It seems to me, short of being dropped on his head and thereby erasing whatever happened up to that point, there should be something more in his memory bank other than the pain of being teased about the hole in the seat of his pants at the tender age of five.
Truthfully, there are a few other things. He remembers being reprimanded by a teacher, for standing up and yelling at someone outside the window while class was going on. He remembers being scolded by his father for scooting across the floor on his behind. attempting to impress his uncle's new bride. (That may be how he got the hole in the seat of his pants.) He hasn't forgotten the time he was late for class and nearly decapitated himself by running into a clothes line. He also remembers the time he ran half a mile home, fleeing the slingshot hanging out of his back pocket, while thinking he was being pursued by a deadly rattler. Then, there is the memory of "Katsy" or rather, he remembers begging to go to "Katsy's" house. Nobody in his family ever figured out who Katsy was, much less where she lived, but those meager anecdotes about sum up all that's survived of his childhood.
The next time his train of recall starts up, he was a full grown soldier boy, heading for war. He remembers the war years well, mainly because he had knots in his stomach for two years from fear of flying shrapnel or the possibility of stepping on a land mine.
As nearly as I can determine, in order for him to consider an event memorable, it must involve pain, embarrassment, fear, or something totally non-existent. Given that, I have to consider it a positive thing that he remembers so little of our courtship and our numerous years of marriage. All the adorable things the children did or said are part of my memory, not his. He remembers their accidents, the skeletons they dragged from our proverbial closet and displayed for the amusement of our friends, and the fights in the back seat when "I'm going to count to ten" stopped working, and he occasionally managed to subdue them by threatening to stop the car.
However, what stands out more vividly than any other tidbits of family history, in his cache of recollections are our vacations, or more accurately, selective parts of them. He can conjure these jewels from the depths of his grey matter with total recall, causing all the emotions he felt at the time to come flooding to the surface. Those are times we tiptoe and try to stay out of his way.
I guess the reason these memories are so much clearer than the others are because they involve a combination of stimuli. Pain, from the inescapable headache that follows a day of driving and listening to me yell at four hyper children, who were attempting to destroy each other, in the back seat. Fear, that maybe he might totally lose control and actually do bodily harm to one of them (or me). Embarrassment, caused by the likelihood we might be evicted from a restaurant, because one of them had initiated a food fight. But central to all, is his creative, but paranoid, imagination, which convinces him that I once deliberately set out to cause his demise, by nearly running out of gas in the middle of the scenic route, and then, choosing not to find a motel room instantly, when he informed me that his head was bursting, and he didn't think he was long for this world. Even Alfred Hitchcock couldn't have devised such an ingenious murder plot.
Since that time, every year when vacation rolls around, we've had to deal with the resurrection of this cerebral demon of his, which threatens to call a halt to any plans I might have to get away a few day. Personally, my own demon sleeps. I remember peaceful mountains and carefree days. Reality sets in some time later, usually when we've traveled too far to turn back.
So be it. Perhaps I have my own brand of selective amnesia.
I don't have an exceptional memory, but I have retained bits and pieces of almost everything of any significance that happened to me from age three on, and some things earlier than that. It seems to me, short of being dropped on his head and thereby erasing whatever happened up to that point, there should be something more in his memory bank other than the pain of being teased about the hole in the seat of his pants at the tender age of five.
Truthfully, there are a few other things. He remembers being reprimanded by a teacher, for standing up and yelling at someone outside the window while class was going on. He remembers being scolded by his father for scooting across the floor on his behind. attempting to impress his uncle's new bride. (That may be how he got the hole in the seat of his pants.) He hasn't forgotten the time he was late for class and nearly decapitated himself by running into a clothes line. He also remembers the time he ran half a mile home, fleeing the slingshot hanging out of his back pocket, while thinking he was being pursued by a deadly rattler. Then, there is the memory of "Katsy" or rather, he remembers begging to go to "Katsy's" house. Nobody in his family ever figured out who Katsy was, much less where she lived, but those meager anecdotes about sum up all that's survived of his childhood.
The next time his train of recall starts up, he was a full grown soldier boy, heading for war. He remembers the war years well, mainly because he had knots in his stomach for two years from fear of flying shrapnel or the possibility of stepping on a land mine.
As nearly as I can determine, in order for him to consider an event memorable, it must involve pain, embarrassment, fear, or something totally non-existent. Given that, I have to consider it a positive thing that he remembers so little of our courtship and our numerous years of marriage. All the adorable things the children did or said are part of my memory, not his. He remembers their accidents, the skeletons they dragged from our proverbial closet and displayed for the amusement of our friends, and the fights in the back seat when "I'm going to count to ten" stopped working, and he occasionally managed to subdue them by threatening to stop the car.
However, what stands out more vividly than any other tidbits of family history, in his cache of recollections are our vacations, or more accurately, selective parts of them. He can conjure these jewels from the depths of his grey matter with total recall, causing all the emotions he felt at the time to come flooding to the surface. Those are times we tiptoe and try to stay out of his way.
I guess the reason these memories are so much clearer than the others are because they involve a combination of stimuli. Pain, from the inescapable headache that follows a day of driving and listening to me yell at four hyper children, who were attempting to destroy each other, in the back seat. Fear, that maybe he might totally lose control and actually do bodily harm to one of them (or me). Embarrassment, caused by the likelihood we might be evicted from a restaurant, because one of them had initiated a food fight. But central to all, is his creative, but paranoid, imagination, which convinces him that I once deliberately set out to cause his demise, by nearly running out of gas in the middle of the scenic route, and then, choosing not to find a motel room instantly, when he informed me that his head was bursting, and he didn't think he was long for this world. Even Alfred Hitchcock couldn't have devised such an ingenious murder plot.
Since that time, every year when vacation rolls around, we've had to deal with the resurrection of this cerebral demon of his, which threatens to call a halt to any plans I might have to get away a few day. Personally, my own demon sleeps. I remember peaceful mountains and carefree days. Reality sets in some time later, usually when we've traveled too far to turn back.
So be it. Perhaps I have my own brand of selective amnesia.
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This was written years ago when my husband was living.
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