When I was a kid, my Mom would sometimes take my sister and me to a monarch butterfly sanctuary. One day, we brought home a couple caterpillars and nurtured them until they transformed. Haven't thought that in a long time.
you’re welcome, but thank YOU. that sounds like a wonderful memory, whether it’s been implanted or suggested or real as ever. whichever the case, you still have it
i wrote a line once about a someone trawling through their memory recorder in a passage along the lines of "one's recorded memories were often very different to how you remembered them."
"It was not like watching a video recording; the past was much clearer with the eyes closed. What was most vivid of all in memories were the things that had stood out at the time: loud noises, bright colours, powerful smells; things with sharp, murderous teeth. The visual effect was like looking down a tube of frosted glass with a fish-eye lens at the far end. Everything that the eyes had been focussing upon at the time was enlarged and bulged towards the viewer; things at the periphery distorted, shrank or faded. Whole sections of the view could suddenly disappear into blackness or swirling globs of colour. Things that you had remembered or which had come to mind at the time would materialise as real things, as if they had been there. Sounds, colours, smells: all of them could distort the image; shift its focal point or stir up emotions. It was a surreal and nauseating experience, and events were often not at all the same as you thought you had remembered them."
Loved this story. I love reading explorations of memory/perception in fiction and you've done it well here. And I have a vivid butterfly memory that may or may not be real! Maybe 4 or 5 years old, with a butterfly net, running around a field of butterflies. Maybe my parents took me to a butterfly sanctuary, maybe I dreamed it up. Either way, it's a beautiful memory for me.
I knew she was going to be the love of my life shortly after we met. Strange, because I had been married for almost 30 years to someone I had planned to spend my life with and then she left. Linda was ethereal, there, but liminal, between my life as a recovering married man and something I had never imagined. Our first time, equally in-between, a closeness I had never experienced with another person, wrapped in a desire that was almost molten. All we did was lie, wrapped around each other while I kissed her hands, her lips, her neck. I wanted to remember this, her taste, her sounds, the moon through her shadowed drapes as they moved in the slight breeze of on-coming summer. I can bring up this memory, un-dimmed, 20 years later. I don't care how fabricated, intentional, even accurate it is. The feelings of breathlessness, anticipation and knowing, even then, that she would break my heart, remain. I wouldn't trade them for anything.
So lovely, Clancy. A phenomenon that every reader can relate to in his/her own way. I, for a fact, remember a whole lot of stuff that probably never even happened. As you say, reality exists in two places - within and without. I have no problem with that.
thanks sharron! yes I knew you would get it. i think this nature of reality is a somewhat controversial thing to say in these times, but it’s a truth i know in my heart
I love this piece! This subject opens for me (to me?) with some degree of frequency. Perhaps my age has something to do with it, although my thoughts about it have morphed over the years. I don't know that I've every fully bought all the "givens" about memory. I've felt it's bendy-ness along with the joy of filling in those vacant spaces with the best feelings possible. I love the way you lead us through the story, always staying the course set by your mother. The way you hold her in honor, while processing through each of your turning points, is kind and caring. I so appreciate you sharing that journey and all its gems tucked in along the way. I read permission to unpack some gems from my own past. Thanks, Clancy
ps one of my personal axioms is, "just because it didn't happen doesn't mean it's not true..."
This is such an interesting topic! And you’ve written it beautifully into your story. I do have weird memories of random things that should be of no consequence from my childhood, yet, I can’t remember big important things like birthdays. I do often wonder if our memories were built on photographs and old stories and fuzzy recollections.
I have a house I truly loved that I have not seen for over a decade. Recently an opportunity to go to the city of this favorite home arose. At the last minute it fell through and I was so relieved. I think I can’t bear to sully my happy memories with the reality of what could have been and what is.
thanks jenn! someone else mentioned photographs too and i wish i included that in the story. i do think that many memories come from outside us rather than within us.
and as someone else said in the comments—probably for the best not to go back and disturb those memories. best for them to remain memories
Sounds like you have the inspiration for another story on your hands ☺️. Yes, I agree, best to leave the memories undisputed… you have just reminded me of a favorite song, “Doesn’t Remind Me” by audioslave.
Excellent story, Clancy. I know I can't remember anything about being a baby. And as the character says, how would we know what they said since we didn't understand English at the time? But I've had memories that I think were actually just dreams but then again, I can't be sure, either. I suppose we're all a mixed bag of reality and some dream-like state. Loving these stories, man. Keep them coming.
It's hard though to imagine grandmothers whose knee-jerk reaction to a grandkid's full diaper is disgust. I'm yet to meet one. I saw many. I'm not saying they all just jump with joy, but disgust is a very strong word here.
yes I do believe in monarchs. "I do believe in fairies"
My early houses are too far away to revisit. I saw some photos though. Friends sent me some long time ago; also, Google Earth
(they're not houses per se; one can see an apartment building. I was quite mad because one place, they painted something distasteful, and another one, the boardwalk looks as if nobody repaired it since we were gone, and I got upset about all the elderly and all the young mothers with strollers etc who have to walk there each day)
thanks for reading chen. i get what you mean about disgust, but to be fair she immediately laughs about it. it’s always strange to see/go back someplace you used to live. my wife gets mad when she sees what’s happened to our old apartments!
yes she does, I didn't miss it)) That's cool. That's cool anyway
yes...one is attached in a strange way. I'm attached to places we rented, even. Evem sometimes if for a couple years. And it's all sorts of memories, sone of them unhappy really -and still I get attached.
I'm not sure we ever know whether a memory is exact or distorted. Sometimes it like those anecdotes we embroider then forget that it didn't happen exactly like that. What I'm certain about though is that you can't go back. Shouldn't go back unless your memories mean nothing to you.
thanks for reading jane. i think you’re right—the memories take shape the way they do for a reason. and i think the narrator would agree: never go back.
Our small family, too, has a collection of anecdotes that span fifty years and three generations - little stories that form the family "history". We tell them every time we get together and, as you say, embroider them over time. They become larger and funnier and more important, we know it and we don't care! "Remember the time mom set the barn on fire...?" etc. I imagine it is true for a lot of families.
I’m blinking against the moisture filming my eyes. Oh, my, what a powerful piece. It evoked memories of my childhood home, a splendid place overlooking a large pond. The house, now renovated, is occupied by people who continue to farm the land. The pull is there. I want to go back, to see if my memories align with reality. Thanks, Clancy, for this beautifully-written piece.
i’m glad it had such an impact rebecca. thanks as ever for reading. jane said in another comment “you should never go back”. i kind of agree with that, and i think the narrator does too (when his tears on the past are spent as he stands in his room). it’s best to let memories lie sometimes
His behavior toward me changed once he realized I had grown up in a gorgeous house. Prior to that he'd questioned just about everything I said or did. Within a day or two he was soliciting my advice. The turnaround was glaring but he didn't seem to realize it.
This is a wonderful heartwarming story, full of life, love and humour... the collective experience of 'mum' was so familiar. When she entered the house... I held my breath in horror and anticipation...!! still laughing!
With a butterfly net on a wild quest
Memory catching at sunset is best
To collect moments past
Gives the present a blast
But the future we might choose to forget
your best yet. thanks as ever JK Ghillis
Beautiful.
When I was a kid, my Mom would sometimes take my sister and me to a monarch butterfly sanctuary. One day, we brought home a couple caterpillars and nurtured them until they transformed. Haven't thought that in a long time.
Thank you.
you’re welcome, but thank YOU. that sounds like a wonderful memory, whether it’s been implanted or suggested or real as ever. whichever the case, you still have it
very thought provoking.
i wrote a line once about a someone trawling through their memory recorder in a passage along the lines of "one's recorded memories were often very different to how you remembered them."
so your piece really resonates with that concept.
love that nick. you can post it here if you want. thanks for reading!
Why.. i think I shall kind sir
excerpt...
"It was not like watching a video recording; the past was much clearer with the eyes closed. What was most vivid of all in memories were the things that had stood out at the time: loud noises, bright colours, powerful smells; things with sharp, murderous teeth. The visual effect was like looking down a tube of frosted glass with a fish-eye lens at the far end. Everything that the eyes had been focussing upon at the time was enlarged and bulged towards the viewer; things at the periphery distorted, shrank or faded. Whole sections of the view could suddenly disappear into blackness or swirling globs of colour. Things that you had remembered or which had come to mind at the time would materialise as real things, as if they had been there. Sounds, colours, smells: all of them could distort the image; shift its focal point or stir up emotions. It was a surreal and nauseating experience, and events were often not at all the same as you thought you had remembered them."
very kind.of you to say! another amazing thing about substack is the constant inspiration that others provide!
Loved this story. I love reading explorations of memory/perception in fiction and you've done it well here. And I have a vivid butterfly memory that may or may not be real! Maybe 4 or 5 years old, with a butterfly net, running around a field of butterflies. Maybe my parents took me to a butterfly sanctuary, maybe I dreamed it up. Either way, it's a beautiful memory for me.
thanks Steph! remember, whether it was real or not…it still matters!
I knew she was going to be the love of my life shortly after we met. Strange, because I had been married for almost 30 years to someone I had planned to spend my life with and then she left. Linda was ethereal, there, but liminal, between my life as a recovering married man and something I had never imagined. Our first time, equally in-between, a closeness I had never experienced with another person, wrapped in a desire that was almost molten. All we did was lie, wrapped around each other while I kissed her hands, her lips, her neck. I wanted to remember this, her taste, her sounds, the moon through her shadowed drapes as they moved in the slight breeze of on-coming summer. I can bring up this memory, un-dimmed, 20 years later. I don't care how fabricated, intentional, even accurate it is. The feelings of breathlessness, anticipation and knowing, even then, that she would break my heart, remain. I wouldn't trade them for anything.
So lovely, Clancy. A phenomenon that every reader can relate to in his/her own way. I, for a fact, remember a whole lot of stuff that probably never even happened. As you say, reality exists in two places - within and without. I have no problem with that.
thanks sharron! yes I knew you would get it. i think this nature of reality is a somewhat controversial thing to say in these times, but it’s a truth i know in my heart
I love this piece! This subject opens for me (to me?) with some degree of frequency. Perhaps my age has something to do with it, although my thoughts about it have morphed over the years. I don't know that I've every fully bought all the "givens" about memory. I've felt it's bendy-ness along with the joy of filling in those vacant spaces with the best feelings possible. I love the way you lead us through the story, always staying the course set by your mother. The way you hold her in honor, while processing through each of your turning points, is kind and caring. I so appreciate you sharing that journey and all its gems tucked in along the way. I read permission to unpack some gems from my own past. Thanks, Clancy
ps one of my personal axioms is, "just because it didn't happen doesn't mean it's not true..."
Becky, you really picked up what I put down in this story. love "bendy-ness" of memory. that axiom sums it up perfectly. thanks for reading.
This is such an interesting topic! And you’ve written it beautifully into your story. I do have weird memories of random things that should be of no consequence from my childhood, yet, I can’t remember big important things like birthdays. I do often wonder if our memories were built on photographs and old stories and fuzzy recollections.
I have a house I truly loved that I have not seen for over a decade. Recently an opportunity to go to the city of this favorite home arose. At the last minute it fell through and I was so relieved. I think I can’t bear to sully my happy memories with the reality of what could have been and what is.
thanks jenn! someone else mentioned photographs too and i wish i included that in the story. i do think that many memories come from outside us rather than within us.
and as someone else said in the comments—probably for the best not to go back and disturb those memories. best for them to remain memories
Sounds like you have the inspiration for another story on your hands ☺️. Yes, I agree, best to leave the memories undisputed… you have just reminded me of a favorite song, “Doesn’t Remind Me” by audioslave.
Excellent story, Clancy. I know I can't remember anything about being a baby. And as the character says, how would we know what they said since we didn't understand English at the time? But I've had memories that I think were actually just dreams but then again, I can't be sure, either. I suppose we're all a mixed bag of reality and some dream-like state. Loving these stories, man. Keep them coming.
I loved the story
It's hard though to imagine grandmothers whose knee-jerk reaction to a grandkid's full diaper is disgust. I'm yet to meet one. I saw many. I'm not saying they all just jump with joy, but disgust is a very strong word here.
yes I do believe in monarchs. "I do believe in fairies"
My early houses are too far away to revisit. I saw some photos though. Friends sent me some long time ago; also, Google Earth
(they're not houses per se; one can see an apartment building. I was quite mad because one place, they painted something distasteful, and another one, the boardwalk looks as if nobody repaired it since we were gone, and I got upset about all the elderly and all the young mothers with strollers etc who have to walk there each day)
thanks for reading chen. i get what you mean about disgust, but to be fair she immediately laughs about it. it’s always strange to see/go back someplace you used to live. my wife gets mad when she sees what’s happened to our old apartments!
yes she does, I didn't miss it)) That's cool. That's cool anyway
yes...one is attached in a strange way. I'm attached to places we rented, even. Evem sometimes if for a couple years. And it's all sorts of memories, sone of them unhappy really -and still I get attached.
I'm not sure we ever know whether a memory is exact or distorted. Sometimes it like those anecdotes we embroider then forget that it didn't happen exactly like that. What I'm certain about though is that you can't go back. Shouldn't go back unless your memories mean nothing to you.
thanks for reading jane. i think you’re right—the memories take shape the way they do for a reason. and i think the narrator would agree: never go back.
The more we loved a place, the more it hurts to go back and find it changed.
Our small family, too, has a collection of anecdotes that span fifty years and three generations - little stories that form the family "history". We tell them every time we get together and, as you say, embroider them over time. They become larger and funnier and more important, we know it and we don't care! "Remember the time mom set the barn on fire...?" etc. I imagine it is true for a lot of families.
I’m blinking against the moisture filming my eyes. Oh, my, what a powerful piece. It evoked memories of my childhood home, a splendid place overlooking a large pond. The house, now renovated, is occupied by people who continue to farm the land. The pull is there. I want to go back, to see if my memories align with reality. Thanks, Clancy, for this beautifully-written piece.
i’m glad it had such an impact rebecca. thanks as ever for reading. jane said in another comment “you should never go back”. i kind of agree with that, and i think the narrator does too (when his tears on the past are spent as he stands in his room). it’s best to let memories lie sometimes
Enjoyed your step back in time! Imagination springs forth given the space it needs to thrive!
exactly, well said Loretta! thanks for reading.
Excellent short story, really enjoyed it!
thanks for reading Thomas, I’m glad!
I took a kind of perverse pleasure in his lack of self awareness.
thanks for reading rita, what do you mean by lack of awareness?
His behavior toward me changed once he realized I had grown up in a gorgeous house. Prior to that he'd questioned just about everything I said or did. Within a day or two he was soliciting my advice. The turnaround was glaring but he didn't seem to realize it.
This is a wonderful heartwarming story, full of life, love and humour... the collective experience of 'mum' was so familiar. When she entered the house... I held my breath in horror and anticipation...!! still laughing!
Thank you
thank you :)