Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Merry Christmas

My first memory is a blurred recollection prompted, expanded from, and perhaps invented from an old photograph. I am four. I have long reddish hair, an equistive look on my face, and am wearing a long blue nightgown with lace around the neck. I am pulling a Fisher Price Circus train. There is no one else in the picture nor are there are any signs that it is Christmas. Nor are there any clues as to where I am. I assume it's my grandmother's house because we spent all our Christmases there.


In my memory, unreliable thing that it is, the train is a gift from my dad. But he is not there. It is Christmas Eve. I am upstairs in our apartment above my uncle's apartment. We have a small tree tucked beneath the eaved ceiling. It is a pultry thing, skinny with few branches, and holding only a few ornaments, tons of tinsel, and some lights. At four I don't care though nor does my brother who is only two. There are no presents under our tree. The presents will be at my grandmother's. This year I am concerned that Santa will know where to go but my mom assures me that he knows. Earlier in the month, she helped me write a letter to Santa explaining that we celebreate at my grammies. As my mom packs some clothes for our overnight visit to my grandmothers, she sings carols, badly with the radio. My mom can't carry a tune but she sounds happy.


--Bring these to your Uncle.


She hands me some slender gifts. I go downstairs. Here it does not smell like Christmas but rather it's dank and musty, smellling of old cigarettes and dogs. The hallway bothers me with it's dark paneled walls and twisting corners. I am terrified that I will fall. I make it safely to my Uncle's door, and knock. The door opens to reveal my father!


--Daddy!


Now I know why my mother is happy. I drop the presents and launch myself into his arms. He holds me away from him looking surpised and then embarssed. It is only then that I realize this man is not my father but his brother. Everyone in the room laughts at his discomfort, and I tr hard to not cry. I don't know if I wanted to cry because I am humilated at this mistaek or because it is not my father. I stay for a short bit of time, long enough to get a candy cane, and then I go back to our apartment. But the moment won't go away. It is trade among my family for the whole night and the next day. Everyone laughs, and remarks how much my uncle looks like my father. The story will follow me years later. In fact, it will be told at least once every Christmas.


--Remember the year that Ginger mistook Mark for her father?



9 comments:

Anonymous said...

This is beautiful, Ginger.

Is your uncle of the last paragraph the same uncle of the third? I understood that your apartment was above the apartment of your mother's brother - for no good reason.

And yes, memory is unreliable. Just ask a friend about a shared experience - they will remember something different. Perhaps this is why photography and recordings of events are so popular in our culture - a 'neutral' record dispells doubts as to the actuality of an event...

Jon

Unknown said...

Yes it is and that's not very clear is it? As for my mother's uncle, I emphasized that we lived above him because in the grand sceme of this life telling it is important. My extended family always seemed to live on top of each other. As I got older I found, and still find this suffocating.

Actually I am not sure if photography does this. The picture that sparks this memory is when I am four, and the memory itself actually happened when I was six. But they have become so enwrapped in my mind, it is hard to seperate them without conscious thought.

Horacio said...

This is so moving and beautiful...

Mistaking people for other people is something that I've been thinking about lately: what is it that makes this possible? Is it just a physical resemblance? or is there something more than just that?
Do we wish this misrecognition, do we make it happen?

Horacio said...

As for memory:
Pictures just seem to spark our imagination further when trying to remember an event in the past... I have to disagree with Jon, i don't think pictures dispell any doubts.

John B-R said...

I'll add my "this is beautiful" to the chorus. Please keep on with this project.

Anonymous said...

I have to disagree with my morning self too. Or at least say that I think I meant that photos go some way to documenting the past, providing a record (the people in them were in a certain space together at a certain time). They don't actually help you remember, in any way. Or they do, but only indirectly, in a confused way...

What I think I was talking about was the way in which people are constantly documenting events now, as if to dispell doubts that they happened (and we've all read Baudrillard so we know this isn't the case - the photo becomes the event). I remember many nights spent with people taking photos, constantly, as if to record those events, as if to be able to prove they happened, to be able to say I was there, with this person and this person.

Unknown said...

Oh I agree Jon that people think photos are neutral, and I suspected that was what you were saying. I am a huge photo taker but for me it's become more about capturing faces, and actions then caputring memories...and even then I know those faces are just my impressions really...my urge at the time.

Photos are so weird!

John B-R said...

There's a show on tv here called "House Hunters" which is about people deciding whether to buy home a b or c and about half the time towards the end of the half hour they say "here's where we'll make our memories" - skipping right over their actual lives into ... what do they mean by memories? It seems that whatever they are, it's often preferable to what they replace.

As some of you know, my son's a professional photographer; he NEVER talks about "making memories" or "proving x happened" - all he says is "I take photos."

Ephémère said...

Very beautiful indeed, Ginger.

Reminded me of my dad shaving his beard when I was four: when he came home back from work (he had left too early for me to see him) he was a perfect stranger to me! I cried when he hugged and kissed me, who was this man, I thought!

Which tends to prove that humas are far more visual than, say, olfactive, than other animals...

Pervasive image...