Nora didn’t have any photographs of her mother, but she had two vivid memories of her. Nora’s mother had died when Nora was quite young.
One memory was of her mother poking her head around the doorway and saying “Peekaboo! Peekaboo! I see you!” The other memory was when Nora had tripped over. She looked up at her mother and her mother said “Whoopsie-daisy!” Nora remembered her mother’s eyes. She could see the colour of her hair; the style of her hair. She could see her smile; every inch of her face. She couldn’t remember what her mother was wearing, but her face was an indelible image forever etched in Nora’s memory.
And then… how exciting! One of Nora’s older brothers found a box of old photographs; a good half a dozen black and white photographs of Nora’s mother. There she is at the beach! There she is cooking on the camp fire! There she is… All were taken before Nora’s time. Nora didn’t know her then, of course.
But now something had happened. The photographs had replaced Nora’s memory. For the life of her, she couldn’t remember what her mother looked like.
Weave a Web 
I often wonder how many of my childhood memories are mine, how many are from photographs, and how many are recollections of what I have been told, rather than real memories of the actual incidents.
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I think that’s absolutely true. The above photo is actually of my Aunt Rene. I remember her as clear as a bell poking her head through the kitchen door and saying something. Trouble is, she died before I was born!
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My grandfather, who fought in World War I —hardly any regular folks had cameras then—-told me that the local drugstore used to sell generic photos of soldiers and lovely “girls back home waiting” for people to keep in their wallets to represent the absent person. Gramp said that after a while—taking the photo out often, talking to it— they would believe that the photo was actually of the missing guy or gal.
(wouldn’t it have been funny if two guys in the trenches ended up with a photo of the same girl!)
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They had guns – it could be dangerous…!
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I’m here in the conversation, nodding my head in agreement. Memories are subjective – mine are often embellished, as my kids assure me 😉
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As is said: Don’t let the facts get in the way of a good story!
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A wee question, Bruce: are your obit people dying according to rhyme these days? Like
Dora, Thora, Cora, Flora, Nora?
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Aha! You’re the first to observe! I took a break from the obits. Then tomorrow’s story is about a man called Ace, and then comes a row of men who rhyme with Harry! After that it gets back to the daily death column!
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To remember is to recall.
To recall is to revoke
To revoke is to remove.
Where was I going with this…?
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I’m not sure:
Off to Alabama with a banjo on your knee?
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As so often, Bruce, you are so spot on as to provoke fascinating and entertaining comments. Keith probably speaks for all of us.
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Well – and a WOW – I’m privileged to be followed and commented upon by so many people of discerning intelligence – and from such a diversity… so thanks Derrick. I potter on as simply as possible here in the antipodes. It’s more isolated than the tourist brochures make out!
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The population statistics rather confirm that, but you transcend isolation.
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It is often hard to separate things we imagined happened and those things that really happened! Pictures can either clarify or confuse!
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Yes – although I wouldn’t like to be without “old” photos – even if they confuse!
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Interesting to see what our parents’ lives were like before us, I love to look at those old photographs and see them in a different time.
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I like doing that too. I once wrote an entire play based on a photo of g-g-grandparents and a g-aunt at a picnic!
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That is a subtle piece. Perhaps a displacement of our yearnings can do that to us. And that also explains why sometimes we hate a movie of a book that we have read and formed our own imagery about the story.
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Absolutely. It’s why I detest “Lord of the Rings” and saw only the first 20 minutes of the three films. It wasn’t at all as I had “seen” it.
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