Our lives exist because we have experiences that create memories. We remember our childhood for the better, or the worse. Elementary and high schools shape our lives in ways that we forever remember.
We marry, join the military, divorce, have children of our own, learn trades and professions. These experiences are similar to those of the people who live beside us, grow with us, and join us in various activities.
But each of us has a unique story to tell because each of us handles all those things in our own way, creating different opportunities and memories. Each of us touch different lives in gigantic ways.
From the get-go, I knew I wanted to write, yet I had no desire to live in New York City, or Los Angeles, or Chicago. I’m not a city girl. Having grown up on a small farm, I found that small town life and country living suited me perfectly.
Different experiences I may have had in joining the city life would have created memories much different from those I now harbor. Would I be, also, a completely different person?
I think I’d be the same me, but I’d have different memories.
If I’d gone to the city, my two children and five dogs wouldn’t have ever known me. And just think: those seven beings are unique to me only in a world of billions of beings.
There, also, are the little memories we each carry.
I like this story from Rose F. Kennedy’s book Times to Remember:
“… In the front seat, with the driver, was a man with a snow shovel. Every now and then, when the drifts and the churned up snow slush had us in jeopardy, he would put on his gloves, hunch his collar up, seize the shovel, and go out and extricate us. I was so amused by the situation and preoccupied with wondering whether we would actually get to our destination that I didn’t learn his name or anything else about him. Yet in my memory he remains one of the heroes of the evening.”
The occasion was a car ride through snowy roads. Rose Kennedy was traveling to Washington D.C. to see her son, John F. Kennedy, inaugurated the next day as President of the United States.
That little memory, within that of the evening’s huge eventful destination, was hers to hold forever, which she obviously did, even after the tragic loss of her son.
As writers, we never should discount the small, unique memories we each retain. They are part of great stories to tell, and, in the end, those little memories, as well as the more obvious ones, represent us as individuals.