The Native Iowan

More rain and humid, overcast, potential storm kinda weather. A pleasant 26c/80f. On and off showers, sunshine, steamy kinda weather. The pool is brisk. I was cooking and being busy and when sweat gets too much, a hop in the pool, it changes everything.

I have recently been “working on” my memory. Working at refining my memories, seeing things clearly, aiming to remember as much a stay be possible.

I claim to have a memory from hell. I claim to remember a lot. Given a chance, given time, I claim I can find most memories. Of course I have not been subjectively tested, but what the hell? I’ll still boast a damn decent memory.

I have vivid memories of the womb.

Distinct memories of being very small, before I possessed language.

Memories of the womb are mostly auditory. No scent or sight involved. My very young memories are caleidoscopic. A mix of visual, olfactory, auditory. And more. The sense of smell is strong in my memories.

I’ve recently been reviewing my memory data base. Exercising. I choose an important milestone, let’s try Kennedy being shot, November 22 1963. I go there and check my memories out.

I know where I was living. In fact, I can still find it on google earth, sort of. I know the area but the topography has changed a lot. The house and the barn and the out buildings of the farm where we lived, south of Knoxville, Iowa, are gone. The land has been turned to cropping of corn and soy beans. Fence rows have been ripped up and changed. The slews and ponds filled in and levelled. But the roads appear to be pretty much the same.

I see the place clearly.

The house is a small grey/white two story. A fair distance from the road. Barn, a number of out buildings, mound style root cellar, big bell by the clothes line, where sister Holly lost her front teeth.

Front door facing the road was never used. Backdoor opening onto the sizable porch was the way in and out. Porch to kitchen. Kitchen was the majority of the house. The biggest room. I see a lot of familiar items as I walk in. The kitchen always smelled of warmth and coffee.

Turn right and the downstair bedroom is off the kitchen, where the folks and the youngest kids slept. It had once been my bedroom.

A hard right and a hallway with a big built-in linen closet, straight-on to the bathroom. Left into the sitting/ TV room. The front door has a chair in front of it. TV next to the chair.

Bedroom and sitting room windows faced north, Kitchen windows face south.

A door to the right, off the western end of the kitchen, opens to a tight staircase. Leads up to two small, unheated bedrooms.

Straight up and into the boys bedroom. Up and right and into the bigger, girls bedroom.

I don’t have a memory of the day Kennedy was shot. But…

November 25, 1963. I am in the sitting room with others of the family. The public/ State funeral taking place. It was a Monday. I see my family around. I cant really understand why everyone is around. I understand the death of JFK. I watched and admired his son. Little Jon Jon was cool to all kids my age. I was 6. He looked very cool walking all groomed and nice.

I think we were all home from school/ work for the occasion. I cant explain why others were around on a Monday. That Monday. Unless it was the Thanksgiving holidays?

I note the emotional distress on my father. He greatly admired JFK. I feel my mother being more of a comforting entity rather than being distraught. It was a big deal.

Another exercise I do is to remember Christmases and New Year eves. NY’s eve is usually party. Makes it easier for me to recall. Fourth of Julys’ are easy to bring up too. The fire works.

I like parties.

The further I go back the less words there are.

Where do the words begin? For a guy that remembers so much I really need to search for this…

It’ll take some time but I’ll find it. Most of it is in that little farm house. I’ll spend some more time there.

One more exercise I’ll share is I go through my school years. Go to you very first day of school. Explore that year. Explore it all. Then the next, and the next.

Some folks count sheep to sleep. I review my data base of memories.

I understand that some folks don’t like to go back, to honestly review their memories. I know that much of life is spent forgetting things. Hurtful, dark, sad things. Trying to forget is not productive. Endeavoring to remember, remember all, is very worth while.

More later

Smiles