Alef: The NEXT Conversation

Faded Memories

By Emily Kapit

My childhood home does not stand out from the surrounding houses; in fact, the ranch-style, brown brick structure almost fades into the surrounding flora, and is nearly swallowed up by the larger two-floor homes sharing the dead-end street. That being said, and given the fact that I spent my entire childhood growing up there, nearly every inch of my parents’ property is crawling with memories.

I was reminded of this on a recent trip home. In the two years since I last set foot through the door, I’d gone through significant life changes, including: getting married, moving to a new part of the country, finishing grad school and, simply stated, growing up. Yet, as my husband drove down the road towards my house, the floodgates opened and memories washed over me. We passed the street where I cheered my brothers on during endless games of stickball (a game of skill, none of which I possess).  We passed the creek that separated our property from our neighbors’, Where everything became a dense jungle, a death-defying obstacle course or whatever else my imagination demanded.  We passed the lawn with its daunting hill which taunted me as I agonized over pushing the lawn mower up and down, left and right (see previous column here).

Jon pulled in behind my old “high school ride” and while the car itself looked exactly the same, the clever bumper sticker (and reminder) my mother placed on the rear bumper had faded into illegibility. “How else will people know the importance of being nice to your kids?” I thought while opening the door to our car. “They’ll pick your nursing home.” I never did understand why my mother put the sticker there but the words do ring true.

As I neared the front door, a warm April sunburst peaked through the clouds and glinted off the stained-glass windows in the dining room. I’d once asked my father why he chose those windows, with their unique iconography:

“Em”, he said, “the Star of David and menorah remind us of who we are, especially when we’re so few in numbers. The cornucopia of fruits and vegetables remind us that wherever we are, our lives should be full and plentiful.”

Neither before nor since has my doctor father sounded so much like…a rabbi.

As I passed through the front door, the memories only increased in number and depth. A quick glance down the hall and I could see the doorways to the back bedrooms, all three of which I occupied at some point. I thought about heading into my most recent bedroom but stopped short, remembering that I was actually there for a reason (to grab a bowl for my dog) and besides – my mother had changed it into a guest room. That room was not my own anymore; its contents of my teenage years had long been moved or thrown away. Walking back in to my bedroom might forever shift the images in my brain, possibly trashing the contents included therein.

Instead, I headed towards the kitchen, and aimed straight for the cupboard where I knew my mother had kept the plastic bowls for years. They were still there but I barely remember reaching for them. Instead, I felt myself drowning in memories from over eighteen years worth of family dinners at that kitchen table, the one where we gathered every night at 7:30 on the dot, milk in our cups and a meat, starch, and vegetable waiting to be devoured on each plate.

I stopped for a moment, one hand grasping a bowl while the rest of me stood paralyzed. In the blink of an eye, there we were, sharing stories from our day, hearing about the latest sporting events, discussing crazy family antics and, occasionally, engaging in a food fight. I saw it all, and then, in the blink of an eye, my entire childhood disappeared.

I shuttered myself “awake” again, grabbed the bowl and headed back outside. Shaking my head, I was surprised that being on my childhood property for a mere thirty seconds could bring forth such a rush of memories. Though my parents’ house may physically blend in with the background, it’s comforting to know my memories clearly stand out against the test of time.

One day, my parents will choose to sell that brown-brick, ranch style house. The movers will remove a lifetime worth of “stuff,” and my parents will take with them them the physical contents they either deem important enough to keep or otherwise give away.  I, on the other hand, have already left that place, taking exactly what I need: memories from a home, sweet home, ones that I’ll put towards building one OF my own. I may not ever have a stained glass window depicting a Star of David, menorah, and woven basket of produce, but I will remember that wherever I am, my home shall hopefully be full and the love within its walls plentiful.

Read more posts from Issue 12: Aliyah – Going Home.

Photo by Pyoakum, licensed under Creative Commons

Tags: Family, home, memories

Posted by Rafi, Monday, April 19th, 2010, 6:09 pm, Going Home.