I’ve been astonished by the onslaught of memoirs, in general but also specifically. Why would we as a society care in the slightest about a detailed account of random people’s lives? I suppose it’s tied to the prevalent oversharing that gave birth to the blogosphere (yes, I know where I’m writing this), the realm of social networking (yes, I know where I posted this link), and the creation of the word “oversharing.”
But also, how did they keep track of all those details? When I read a well-researched biography, I am impressed. But when I read an overly detailed memoir or autobiography, I am skeptical. Or maybe people’s memories are just that much better than mine? (Truth be told, I started writing this last night because I thought I might forget about it if I waited till morning.)
With this understanding, I hereby lay down for the record spotty memories of my earliest years.
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I’d look out the apartment window, down to the parking lot, and wave to the garbageman. He’d wave back. This made me very happy.
I was a picky eater. This was frustrating for my dad.
I Love Lucy reruns were funny.
There was a pool nearby, and a little girl my age took down her top, and this seemed naughty.
My sister ran over me with her bike. It knocked my tooth out. This surprised me. It was getting dark but I guess we found the tooth. We went to our neighbor’s apartment where my parents were visiting. The neighbor’s kids were Lyor and Odelia. Rosemarie was their mom.
A dentist put my tooth back in. It was nighttime.
There was an ice cream truck. Also, someplace called the Livingston Mall.
There was a room for kids at the bowling alley. I had to go to the bathroom. They took me to find my mom. It was dark in that part of the bowling alley. Dark and large. My mom took me to the bathroom.
There was a hotel that my family had something to do with. This was a different place from where we lived. I went to a building called the Little Red Schoolhouse with some older kid. There was a bingo game there, and I sat on his lap. I held my breath. The older kid said, “Don’t blow out.” He was nervous about this. I couldn’t hold it. I blew. Little bingo pieces went everywhere. I shouldn’t have done that.
Outside at the hotel I heard my grandma’s voice on a speaker. “We’ll have hamburgers just like the ones at McDonald’s that Jack likes.” There were other people around and that seemed embarrassing.
Sometimes I was in the parking lot at home. We had a light brown car. My grandpa had a blue Volkswagen.
Jack Silbert, curator