What we remember....or don't...

It's funny how the mind works. We believe things we want to believe, sometimes to justify our own actions, sometimes to help us cope with issues. This often happens in politics, but it also happens in everyday life.

For 30 years, my sister-in-law insisted that her father refused to walk her down the aisle at her wedding, because she got married in a catholic church. Years later, an old 8mm film showed up at a family reunion, showing....yep....the proud father escorting the young bride down the aisle.

I had my own moment of altered memory a few years ago; however, I like to call it my stolen memory. That's because I can't believe my mother and her 5 children would all have the same wonderful memories if they were not true.

It all started with my dad. When he wasn't drinking, he was a delightful person. Everyone liked him. He was always bringing home an assortment of interesting characters, much like you'd bring home a stray animal (although he did his share of that as well. But that's another story). His many friends that filled our home had names like Big Bob, Fat Bob, Shorty, and a woman we called Honey. Her real name was Ruby, but we didn't know that. Her husband called her Honey, so that's what we called her. Then, there was a man I'll call Mr. X. I won't reveal his real name, so as not to embarrass his family. Mr. X was a like a favorite Uncle to us. Partly because he had a funny name, and partly because he was so much fun to be around.

To this day, whenever we have family get-togethers, we laugh about stories about my dad's friends. And everyone has a story about Mr. X. We all remember big pots of spaghetti and berry picking. Mr. X worked with my dad and it seems like he was always at our house after work, making spaghetti or just playing with us. He would take a week's vacation in the summer and take us kids berry picking so we could earn some extra money. My older sister, the competitive one in the family, would race him to see who could pick the fastest and make the most money. Not wanting her to win, Mr. X would eat a sandwich in one hand and pick berries with the other.

We eventually lost contact with Mr. X, but we never forgot him. A few years ago, I saw his name in the Obituaries. I called my mom. We have to go to the funeral, I urged her. It was a nice ceremony, with lots of talk about what a fun guy he was (my mom and I nodded our heads in agreement), and how he was such a family man. What?!?!? He had a family?!?! You mean, we weren't his family?!?! I asked my mom if she had ever met his wife. Well, once or twice, she told me. After the ceremony, we searched for one of his daughters, who appeared to be about my age. We had to tell her how much her father meant to us. "Hello, I'm Mrs. A" my mom said. "Your dad worked with my husband, Mr. A. He came to our house every Friday night and made spaghetti". Blank stare from the daughter. She didn't know who we were. Had not even heard of our name.

I couldn't believe it. Mr. X was such an important part of our lives, but we didn't mean anything to him.

Now my family has one more thing to laugh about when we have get-togethers. When we talk about Mr. X, we add that we made him out to be the person we wanted him to be. Because that was what we wanted to believe.