Write down my memories

Dad taught high-school… he studied psychology, but math was his thing, so he taught math. He was a little inclined to the left, as many of the youth in his age were, but he managed to stay clear of trouble during the revolution. A few years after the revolution, not sure exactly what, but he mentioned something about communities and working together, and some student did the country a favor by reporting him to the authorities during the “cultural revolution” wave.

I remember dad and my uncle, his lawyer brother, sitting at the dining table; dad quiet, uncle talking, words about not being responsible and getting suspended. The 5-year old me overheard these, and imagined his dad floating in a glass tank of bluish goo, somewhere between the earth and sky.

Dad traded his ‘74 BMW for an old truck; he liked the car, you could tell… purple-colored 2002, with huge bumpers that were supposed to protect it, and they did for the most part, as he crashed the car into stuff every now and then. He still jokes and makes an impression of me, when I was 3, riding the car with him, and he crashed the car into a taxi: “Look what you have done!” :) The car may have been a display of his youth, the playfulness that has never left him, not even now. He traded the car for a truck and delivered goods from one factory to another… street lamps, metal rods, anything. One of his friends, offering him a little money on the side, would give him electric kettles to put together. Mom and dad would spread the pieces in the living room and put kettles together, one after another… the numbers mattered. My sister and I would sometimes join in, racing to see who could put one together faster. “Don’t screw it too hard… it’ll crack the body, and won’t stop the leak any better.”

So a few years went by, until nobody could remember why he wasn’t teaching. Someone in charge thought it would be a great idea to make him teach geography… “we don’t have enough geography teachers,” seemed like a reasonable statement. He taught geography until he retired, for almost 20 years.

memories come from way back in time, and some are made right here, somehow. I received a message from a friend on Facebook, which reminded me of this entry and this thread, and this one. It still makes me laugh… the silliness of it all. I can’t believe it’s been two years or so since then, and I miss these guys (bookish, the background singer, is still around, thank goodness, but the rest of the bunch don’t show up much; fortunately they have not deleted, of course!).

_{Some times you find it without looking, and that makes it hard to look to find :)}

Sometimes it’s close… the last time I almost died, it was a viral infection, and I was too weak to think clearly, and I pleaded with God and Satan and everyone in between for help (If I survive I’ll be a good person and help the poor and brush my teeth and so on… eh, I guess I oversold it)... it’s amazing what dehydration and malnutrition does to one’s thoughts! :) The first time I almost died, it was in a pool, at lunch time, while everybody was away having lunch, my cousin and I went to the pool, I miscalculated the center of the pool tube and sank like a stone… the greenish blue color all around, the dance of bubbles, and the reflections of the sun all interrupted when my cousin rushed to call help and a distant cousin dived in the pool, grabbed me by the chin, and pulled me out. I never thanked either one of them.

But the second time I almost died was on a practical joke… winter time, right after we got off the school bus, R and F, two of my best friends, pulled on the two ends of a very long scarf, while my neck was entangled in it. We have been strangling each other in the bus that morning, but being close enough to throw punches makes a big difference. I remember everything became vivid and bright (like it does after 3-hour exams) and I could see myself taking awkward steps after they finally let go… a few drunken paces, and I fell down, tearing my pants on the knee… R comes closer still laughing, “are you ok?” he asks. “]profanity[, you almost killed me!” I said in a hoarse voice, partially amused at the same time by the change in my voice. When I get home, dad wonders about the knee… “what happened?” “I fell… off the stairs” I mix together truths and lies. “It doesn’t look like a stair-fall?” He mentions but doesn’t follow it anymore. And I think to myself that parenting is hard.

R is now a university professor… we still talk every now and then, and we still use the middle-school trash-talk. F went missing for a while a couple of years ago and then his body was found on the street… nobody really knows what happened to him. He was what you’d call a non-conformist… I still think he will show up one day with his unkempt hair and wide smile… “How’s life?” he would say, as if nothing has happened (and perhaps he’s right).

years of university, and I’m in my room, on my bed, reading a book… dad passes from the front door of my room, pauses a little and bursts into laughter. I raise my head, amused, and ask “What?”... “Nothing,” he says, “I’ve passed from here four times, and each time you’ve been in a different pose… lying on the floor with legs on bed once, leaning against the headboard the other time, then legs on the wall, and now leaning down with the book on the floor. It looked like snapshots from a comic book!” I smile back and feel happy inside. :)

_{The images of past events melt away in my memory, but then there are certain things that stand out clearly… not that they’re particularly important, but still they stay vivid. I’m not sure what makes me keep track of a simple laughter in a summer afternoon… maybe its simplicity.}

memories count too, right?

MB defended his dissertation this past Thursday. His work was related to mine, and we worked together, so it was a bit more personal for me. He didn’t do perfect in presenting his work, but had done way too much for his PhD to be affected by it. :)

He got married a few months back; his wife is a student on the west coast and was supposed to be busy with exams for the week. But somehow she made it to be here for the day to surprise him (and boy, was he surprised! :)). He handled it well, though, and added a smiley picture of the two of them to his slides… “Thank you for coming, Honey,” it read. And it hit me… I didn’t expect him to call anybody “honey.” He’s from a traditional background, you see, no previous girlfriends, and limited interaction with females as the lifestyle requires. I was truly impressed by his words in his acknowledgments… genuine, calm, and comfortable in showing his love for the girl. You I never know what people are capable of! :)

skin tans easily. As young kids, we used to play soccer with plastic balls in the wide sidewalk in front of our house with other neighborhood kids. In summer, that’d go all day long, from early in the morning until we couldn’t even see the ball in the dark. The heat wasn’t an issue, we’d go to the front yard of our house, get the water hose, let the hot water (heated up under the sun) pass, and drink as much as we could, as soon as the cold water started flowing. Even though the huge grape-vine covering the sidewalk would save us from some direct sunshine, this all-day ritual meant darker skin tone for me. Mom didn’t like it. She though I looked like “street-boys” (wasn’t I one?) , and would scrub my face really hard, I guess trying to get my “real” color back! That irritated me, naturally, and I’d avoid it any chance I got.

Fast forward to twenty years later, the last time I went back home, it was summer again, and I would just wander around the city under the sun trying to catch up on what I had missed. Mom didn’t say anything this time, but after a week she bought me a cap :)

I am 5, sister is 9. It’s summer time, mom is at work. She gets home at 3 each day (and 3 sounds very special; don’t start any mischief close to that time), except on Thursdays when she skips lunch at work to get home earlier and brings us pieces of hospital’s potato cutlets. She has a long ride to get home on three buses (no ac), and she’s exhausted of heat when she arrives. Mom turns up the ac and lies with her eyes closed. Sis and I walk all over her like kittens, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Sis slowly pushes up mom’s shirt, and blows on her stomach making a raspberry noise; I follow like a good student (like I have to!), and we giggle. Mom’s lips twitch to a smile, and she fights herself not to open her eyes.

Just the routine…

I feel obliged to explain why I’m doing this, maybe not to justify it for others, but to justify it for myself (and words in written form are very convincing :)). There was a power outage at work, and I had to stay at home, which gave me a chance to take a look at my surroundings. And what I saw these little pieces, pieces of furniture, decoratives (the editor says it’s not the correct usage, but whatever!), books, cookware, ..., each reminder of an occasion or a person. I reckon not all people are like that, some move on and let go of everything in the past (their home, always new furniture, and it follows their latest state of mind :)). Good or bad, I carry my memories around with me, and the goal is to embrace the nice ones (even as brief as a smile), and release the unpleasant ones (and hope that the bitterness fades away).

My memory is patchy, and I will follow the same trend in writing them, patchy with no particular order :)