ï»¿9 Mar 2016 Intro for â€œLooking for Homeâ€ by Michael Dennis Farmer for a family history. >rjk read
Letâ€™s go for a walk. Memories are fickle and sly. They are slithering clouds of mist or smoke that change on a whim and leave you shaking your head. I am caught between a blessing and a curse with memories that go back to my first years. I recall things as clear as day with eyes wide open, only to prove to myself it just wasnâ€™t possible. Other times I think it must only be a dream and discover it was for real. We moved a lot when I was â€œgrowing upâ€, a term politically correct but one which often falls short. I remember nearly all of the moves, save for my first year. By ...view middle of the document...
An event of that sort makes it easy recall the situation. But I was wrong. I was remembering, and always had recalled the place we were living when I was 11, but that would have been about 1957. â€œMcHaleâ€™s Navyâ€ aired in 1962, Claudine was on in 1963. We were four homes away by then and I was a sophomore in high school , and we lived in very different homes very different homes. This may seem like too much information, but it consider the memories, and how they can mingle and entwine, and possibly where they can come from. The residences were all real, and they have been located, matched to other records. So those memories are solid.
Another recollection is of a movie with Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan, â€œWhen Harry Met Sallyâ€ involving dinner at a restaurant and an argument about a womanâ€™s ability to fake an orgasm. In the scene Meg does the â€œfakeâ€ famously. But the customer that I thought said to the waitress, â€Iâ€™ll have what sheâ€™s having!â€ wasnâ€™t the one I remembered and wasnâ€™t sitting where I recalled her sitting. So the memories come with a grain or two of salt. So my memories are as I recall them or as related to me from someone elseâ€™s personal recall of events. Sometimes a memory is just a book shelved in the wrong place, a package delivered to the wrong house, but it happens only once in a while.
The recollections that pop up when Iâ€™m trying to get the thoughts down on paper amaze me. Back in 1949, during early summer, Mom took me on a train from Omaha, Nebraska to Long Beach, California to see relatives and look for work. After so many years of seeing a group photograph of aunts and uncles with Mom and myself taken back then, I finally found out who those people were, there were no names on the photo, and names Iâ€™d never even heard. But after sixty-six years 6 years and a note with a picture enclosed from a newly found cousin, I could now identify momâ€™s aunts and uncles.
Patience is a frustrating virtue, for sure. As a child I remember riding on the train, and walking on bright blue carpet washroom. Out the window were snow-capped mountains in the distance, but in my tired white shoes, I was decorating the aisle floor with toilet paper. I once asked Mom about it and she said I couldnâ€™t remember such things at that age. But she kind of had her eyebrows raised a bit with the specifics. Never forget to include the details.
So here I am trying to discover if my mom met my stepfather out there in California or met him back in Omaha where he and his folks lived, but they did marry in Long Beach in July of 1949, two months and ten days short of my second birthday. With naught to go on so far, I donâ€™t know when or where my true â€˜parent setâ€™ got married nor when or where they divorced, but I do have the locations lived at from the hospital to my adventure spanning sixteen residencesâ€¦in seventeen yearsâ€¦for whatever reasons.
And soâ€¦ Where were we? Ah, yes,...