Do you ever find yourself remembering really insignificant little things from many years ago, like in childhood?
I struggle to remember what I was doing last Thursday, but I can remember all of the October birthday’s from my primary school class. Even as the faces of those children fade into the obscurity of my memory, their names and dates are somehow welded onto my brain.
It’s like these little bits of information just somehow fall down the back of our minds and then resurface every so often, bobbing about on the surface like a brightly coloured fishing float.
These tiny, insignificant facts are precious though. No-one else will share your tiny recollections and even if they do, it will be in a different way.
It’s those little, niggly things, like remembering the car registration plate from the vehicle your parents drove when you were seven, or how many stairs there were at your grandmother’s house.
It’s like these memories embed themselves like shrapnel from the explosion that is our busy lives. Each day frantically morphs into the next, a phenomenon that is only felt more keenly in adulthood.
I love my little memories.
I love to remember the yellow ink on the back of my hand from when I was five years old after it had been stamped at a play area we had visited in Blackpool. I remember the smell from my grandparents caravan at Blackpool too and the layout of it. I haven’t been to it since I was a small child, but I can still remember.
I remember playing Uno in the staff room of my old primary school with the rest of the principal cast from a musical production. I remember the smell of glitter glue and silver marker pens from making Christmas cards at nursery when I was four. I remember the give of the plastic numbers in the little pretend phone box in nursery, too.
I remember getting my first Barbie doll for my sixth birthday. I’d been so upset that my parents didn’t want to go get me it and in the end, my Dad relented and drove us to town. At Toy and Hobby (no kids born in the 70’s or 80’s in St Helens can forget that great place) we made our way along the yellow walls and Lego-like green lino over to the Barbie section at the opposite end of the store. I picked the one with the loveliest dress. I loved my Barbie passionately and played with her constantly.
I remember when J registration plate cars came out. I remember finding a birds egg on the playing fields at the back of Eaves Lane Primary.
I remember eating smiley faced biscuits in the garage at our old house on Stirling Crescent in Sutton, listening to Chesney Hawkes belt out ‘The One and Only’.
I remember watching the 1996 Doctor Who TV movie and deciding then and there that Paul McGann was a bloody marvellous actor.
I remember my mother playing ‘We Don’t Need Another Hero’ on a sunny day, back when we lived on Freda Avenue.
Just little things. Just these insignificant things that make up the mosaic of my remembered life, the tapestry of what makes me, me.
I wish I could go back in time and revisit some of these memories, however, part of what made them stick, what made them special, was who I was at the time those memories were made. The wide eyed small child, the grumpy tween, the idealistic and often disappointed teen.
I know this is not just me who remembers the tiny things. My husband can reel off the reg and the make and model of his parent’s cars that they have owned through the years.
These memories are not important in the scheme of things, like remembering where you put your car keys, your burglar alarm code of your next hospital appointment. However, they are important in making up the fibre of you.
I hope you also have some gnarly little memories that never seemed to leave your brain too.