MEMORIES...

I'm the first to admit I have the worst memory. I have trouble remembering names (which is why a generic 'mate' or 'poss' works well at Tinies or Storytime- until some child states 'I'm not a possum!') and have a hard time remembering childhood events. Actually even remembering happenings not that long ago.

I've always had this so can't put it down to old age. And it is tremendously annoying.

My father is one of those that can say 'do you remember when such and such happened and you saw this...' I will stare blankly, having no idea to what he is referring to.

Mind you he usually says 'you were just walking at the time'..... His memory, dare I say it, is outstanding.

So a lot of childhood events I relive via a story that is very surreal. Not that I remember nothing from my childhood.

I remember my little brother finding a 'kitten' and cuddling it till it bit him and he was taken to the doctors with a rat bite.

I remember my sister and I on Christmas Eve, too scared to turn on the light after Santa had been, holding our toys to the window so the flashing light from the beacon on the hill would hopefully reveal our presents.

I remember blackberrying, carting lengths of timber to use as walkways on top the prickly creatures so we could get in deeper and pick more. Remember mushrooming on cold afternoons. Catching trout in the Barham River. The Hoya in the sunroom that went up the wall and along the ceiling, its waxy flowers. Bees drunk on fermented nectarines. The greenhouse, that thick scent of earth and the glare of orchids.

But a lot I don't remember. I'm sure when talking to my brothers and sister that they would arrive at differing memories to mine....and of course if we did remember the same event how different it would be to each of us.

Memoir is a very popular genre - to write in as well as read. We all know someone that wants to write their life story- or is half way through- or really really wants to write it someday, when they have time.

 Frankly I have met two men that should have put their life stories down on paper- one is no longer with us and the other we nag to get some of his stories at least down on tape. Both these men lived amazing lives- did outstanding things- which if not put down in some form will be lost.

So how reliable is memoir writing. After all it is one person's interpretation of their memories. And if they are anything like me, a lot of it is a blank with lots of room for others to fill in.

This photo was taken in Paris in 2006. It was a really hot day and we had spent hours walking through the Louvre, my feet were killing me and we were soaking in the fountain near the entrance. That is all I remember about the day.  I could look back at photos and tell you what we saw in the Louvre - because I have the visual aid of the photographs (and I do remember the cool floors and standing over grates to seek the air conditioning- also how disappointed we were in the Mona Lisa) - but can not tell you where we had dinner that night. What we did afterwards.  My other half could tell me we went to this restaurant, shared a plate of such and such, then walked back to our hotel via the such and such and saw this on the Seine. I would believe him.

So if I began to write a memoir based on what memories I do have - how believable are they?

Is that what memoir does- create a base for people to assume most of it is correct but that there is a fine line where fiction takes over.

How much truth is there in memoir? And can the writer's truth differ to others who were there at the time?

Every now and then I do dip into my childhood memories for an idea for a short story or a poem- that nugget of truth (as I remember it) allows for a depth that pure fiction alone doesn't capture.

But I hesitate to write anything that is considered memoir like...I don't trust what little that I do recall.
Or perhaps that is the idea?
They are my memories - garbled as they are- therefore I have the knowledge to write them.

Or do I?