What Erin Forgot

 I recently pulled a book off the shelves of the library, took it home and after reading the first chapter, took it back.  This doesn't happen very often.  What Alice Forgot, is about a 39-year-old woman hitting her head and losing ten years of her memories.  She forgets her marriage, her three children, and anything that went on between the ages of 29 to 39.

Can you imagine??  Forgetting your children?  Or if you do not have children, look back on the last decade of your life and run through all of the changes that have happened. Your job, or jobs.  Your relationships, friends...bad dates.  Places you've lived.  People you've met.  Any wrinkles?  Weight gain?  If I woke up today, I would be shocked by how long it takes me to get out of my arm chair.  And why the heck am I making cakes, instead of teaching math?  But I digress.

Another book, Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella, is about a young woman waking up in the hospital having forgotten three years of her life.  She discovers she is in extraordinary shape (she can do the splits), is the boss of her company, and is married!  This book, perhaps because it is more entertaining than disturbing, I did not put back on the shelf.

Both my mother and I, at different times, experienced the eery feeling of deja-vous when we read the first chapter of Remember Me?  The idea of losing ones memory for exactly three years is not too far from home.

Although when I woke up I couldn't do the splits.

I joke about my husband being a superhero: an insurance salesman by day, a secret caped crusader by night, Mr. Man.  But really, he has had to be.  Less than a year after he marries the girl of his dreams (ahem) she is rushed to the hospital with what is called a tonic-clonic seizure (previously grand-mal) and wakes up without any memory of the previous three years, forgetting him, their wedding day, and their life together.  

He says he was just happy I wasn't a vegetable.

When the attendant asked me if I knew who Mr. was, I said his name was Robert.  

His name is NOT Robert.

I seemed to know he was important, though, and asked him if we were married.  Strangely enough, I seemed okay with the fact that we were.  We are?  Okay, well then, on to the next thing.  Why does my dad seem so old?

It must be because Mr.'s so darn cute.

We've been married eleven years now, (I remember ten - ha, ha) and have been through a lot together.  And even though I will never be able to do the splits, be the boss of a big company, and never planted a yard full of sunflowers (you need to read the book), our story will always be pretty interesting.

But it's still not funny when I call him Robert.  

Memories of a Living House

It’s silly to some that a house could be a living being; a place filled with voices and glimpses of memories, resting on deep, deep roots.  It can take years to build such a place, and sometimes you don’t realize it has been created until it is gone.

            We were met with shaking news yesterday. Our childhood home had been destroyed by fire.  Although my parents had moved out while I was in University, it was still in their possession, and it was the last place I lived before I “grew up”.

            The place was thick with memories: the sound of screaming fights between sisters; the smell of mom’s meatloaf; the rough feel of the front railing that I was supposed to sand.  I can picture the laminate kitchen floor, and the back entranceway with all of dad’s ball caps hanging above the door. There was the wood trim Dad had brought to its original glory, the TV room where Lord knows what was hidden under the couch, my sister’s room where guinea pigs multiplied, my brother’s room where the ceiling fell in, and my parent’s room where the most significant discussions in my life happened while mom folded laundry.

            The big front window was where my friends and I hid on our last Halloween night after egging several cars that drove by.  Mom physically kicked my butt and said, “The dumbest thing you can do is come here to hide! Now they know who you are!”

I had to wash the neighbour’s car the next morning.

            Dad built us a “fort” outside, too sturdy to be any fun.  The maple trees filled our yard with bright orange leaves each fall.  We played soccer and baseball in the backyard with our cousins every summer.  Watercolour paints, brushes, dry muffins and a cup of tea surrounded mom regularly at the dining room table.

            For me, as for any teenage girl, my room was sacred.  When voting for who would get the large attic as a bedroom, I won by sheer tidiness (not the case anymore) as my sister continually got lost in her belongings.  For years I arranged and rearranged the furniture in my gigantic room, blasted rock music to the rafters after a bad day at school, and cried my eyes out when rejected by a boy.  I would sit at the bottom of the stairs and gab to my girlfriend with the phone cord stretched through the crack in the attic door so my mom wouldn’t hear.

            I chose my path in life here, I found Jesus Christ here, and I stood at the front door in my awful prom dress with my awful prom date and got my awful photo taken (which is now destroyed) here.

I played the piano every night while my parents patiently pretended they could sleep through it here.

            And I spent endless hours sitting on the front porch ironically wishing I lived somewhere else, and was born to a different family here. 

Such is the life of a teenage girl.

            With a faith that promotes not looking on the things of this world, I believe the Lord gives us beautiful things because He knows we need love, enjoyment, comfort and safety.  As I look on the pictures of the melted siding, the broken wooden scalloped tiles, and the smoke billowing out of what was once my room, my heart is broken. 

I know tomorrow I will get over it and realize it is just a house.  But today I will mourn. 

Man, I loved that house.