terrypetersen

The future is there…looking back at us. Trying to make sense of the fiction we will have become. (William Gibson)

I have just picked up Kate from school on the Friday of Kate’s ninth birthday party. We are on our way to get her little sister, Rebe, at her baby sitter’s house.

“Remember when I was in pre-school, Grandma?” Kate remarks. “You used to pick me up every day.”

My brain has an overflow valve. When it gets full, memories leak out. But this scenario is most unlikely. When Kate was four-years-old I worked in a hospital pharmacy. Sure, on Fridays, my day off, Kate and I went to the library for story-time, but that was not a daily event. I tell her so.

“Uh uh, I remember it.”

Apparently that time at the library expanded in her short-life’s memory data base. Books, a delightful children’s librarian, and Grandma must have been important to her. Somehow I don’t feel compelled to argue about facts, details. Her emotions surrounding that Friday event remain solid, valid, despite exaggeration. Some other day we will explore reality.

Recently my husband, Jay, and I traveled with another couple to Grantsville, West Virginia, where he and his friend since high school visited in the late 1960s. They stayed at a hotel owned by a navy friend of Jay’s. Our traveling team had no expectation of reliving those days; the hotel closed and the owner died several years ago. However, Jay’s friend had wanted to return to the area. The trip was a pilgrimage of sorts.

The charm of Grantsville  has remained, population listed on the 2010 census as 562. It went up to 563 in 2011. Grantsville is located in the heart of West Virginia, the quintessential small town. I knew where we were going to stop for lunch when I saw the sign on the local restaurant: Come in as strangers. Leave as friends.

The first person we met, at a small local museum, had an eerie resemblance to the hotel owner when he was younger. However, he said he is not related to the owner in any way. The hotel is set for demolition. I’d hate to think we went back into time—via Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone series that aired from 1959 to 1964.

Since we left intact, I’m pretty sure we didn’t journey into another dimension. The parking meters, however, did belong to another time, a pleasant surprise. Jay pulled a quarter from his pocket. There was no slot for it, only for nickels and dimes.

Therefore, I had to have a photo of that meter. Someday we can say, “Remember in 2013 when we stopped in that town and got 1 ½ hours’ worth of parking for 15 cents?”

Actually, I’d much rather recall snuggling with my grandchildren on the day of Kate’s birthday party—and maybe even exaggerate the heck out of how long that time had been. A little equal time in the false-memory game is fair play.