The gift of a memory.

Memories are probably the first natural gift given to everyone (other than the obvious gift of life). If the memories are not happy ones to cheer you up, then they are given for the same reason Historians believe history is recorded to learn and grow from. Luckily most of my memories are great.
I remember my 1st bike: sitting pretty in pink in our living room. It was my birthday. My parents holding a video camera; filming me sliding down the stairs on my bum, using my small fist to rub the sleep out of my eyes. I was trying not to smile incase for some reason the bike wasn’t mine or it was just some cruel joke.
I remember how mom walked my bike to my school one day to pick me up. I rode it home as she kept pace with me. I might have been too little to express appreciativeness, but I remember feeling it: I was excited to see her waiting for me, and with my bike!
I remember learning to ride the bike without training wheels. Everyone tried to teach me, even grandpa. Finally the small hill in our front yard was the successor when I rolled down it and took off. But from then on, every time I would take off, it would have to be down a small hill. Very similar to push-starting a car.
I remember our garden. Like amateur farmers, we dabbled in carrots, rhubarb, peas and strawberries. All of which are the best I’ve had to this day.
With the garden came friendly, plump bumblebees. One was not so friendly when it attacked while I was defenseless, eating a hot dog.
I remember building the blue deck with lattice walls.
I remember the slip’n’slide on my birthday.
I remember frequently playing in the park that had the big red barn. That was the same place I lost the “kids’ Easter hat-making contest”. I suspect because my mom helped me make the hat—it was the best.
I remember my friends that lived on my block: Amy and Megan (sisters), Kelsey, Chelsea and ‘little’ Megan. Even at 5 I had acquaintances and ‘little’ Megan was it. One day we “ran away”. We walked through our alley (about ½ a block). It was a consensual decision. Every time we passed a family having a barbeque we would complain of hunger. We had been gone 5 minutes. When we rounded the corner back onto our street, Megan’s babysitter was frantic in the front yard with the massive white cordless phone in her hand. My parents rushed over to me. The sun was in the golden stages of setting and my mom told me I was grounded. “What’s ‘grounded’?” I asked.

I remember my brother ‘Mikey’ and the mullet he had for a year or 2. He was cool with that Mikey-Mullet combo. Even at 2 years old.
Before/after the mullet, when he was learning to walk, I remember out of boredom, lifting him by the head and putting him back down. If I wasn’t doing that, I was pushing my fist through the bottom of his bottle forcing the bag of milk to squirt in his face. The result was similar to blowing air into a dogs face: a lot of head shaking and mouth opening. He didn’t know what was going on. I do feel terrible about that. It pangs me with regret every time I think of it. He got me back at a young age when he hit me on the arm with a wooden spoon. He didn’t know what he was doing then either, but it made me cry.

I remember winters in Calgary, learning to skate. I had lots of trouble. One day dad took me to an outdoor rink. It was nighttime and there had just been a snowfall and there was snow on the rink. I had been struggling to learn for a while. I thought “I don’t see why I cant just skate like Wayne Gretsky!” and off I went. I could skate ever since. However, skating is not like riding a bike and I’m not so good at it anymore. Or never was really.
I remember our yearly trips to Mara lake with friends, family and fresh peaches from the Okanogan B.C. Jet Ski’s, swimming, and getting a fat lip from fold-out bed when my dad didn’t realize I was inspecting the mechanics of how it worked.
I remember the annual stop at the Enchanted Forest and castle-- Always on the way home. It was something to look forward to when leaving our beloved summer vacation.
I remember Saturday morning cartoons and on Christmas day waking up too soon. Christmas will always be one of my fondest memories and the one that effects my emotions more than any other. Thinking of past Christmases pulls at my heart strings the hardest.
I remember our 1st dog Tex and how I married her to my stuffed bear I called Barney.
I remember listening to vinyl records and doing the ‘chicken dance’ to ‘La Bamba.
I remember being able to tell the difference between Nirvana and Rolling stones. And how my dad would show his friends like it was a neat trick. I was proud.
I used to remember all the words to most of the Beach Boys’ songs
I remember listening to my dad play guitar—still one of my favorite things.
I remember roast beef sandwiches for school and sometimes tuna too.
I remember going to the Stampede as a little one and begging my dad for $5.00 to make my own (multi-colored) sand filled bottle. After much-ado, I got it and I think to this day I still have it—somewhere—refusing to throw it out because I know how much I went through to get it.
I remember things, so many things, some of which people probably didn’t think I would, like driving in my uncle’s jeep without the doors or the top on. We were discussing the different consistencies of boogers.Then I gave him a visual of one of the ‘types’. Sometimes I wonder if HE remembers. I was 5.
I remember getting presents like cabbage patch dolls, a Ghostbuster’s cassette, and many more when my dad came back from business trips.
I remember a green velvet outfit I had for a Christmas concert in elementary. And how I wished I played the bells instead of singing.
I remember when my aunt came to town it meant we got to see a movie together and I would sometimes get a new ring. It was ritual.

Each memory has a specific impact on my emotions as if I’m going through it all over again. About harassing my brother, I think about how that could have affected our future relationship. I still feel bad about bothering my dad about the little sand bottle. Every memory has a weight on my heart and equally reminds me that I will no longer be receiving memories as great, but rather giving them and making my own. Not to say the memories I’m receiving now aren’t as good. They are just different; more analyzed. I can only hope I can give memories like gifts just how they were given to me.
And remember: that little kid you’re influencing may remember too. It’s amazing what they won’t forget.