My mother recently sent me some pictures and posted others to Facebook. Of changes.
The home in which I lived for a full 21 years is so drastically different from what it once was. There are no longer the majestic oaks - albeit with the pesky blossoms every spring - providing their cooling shade. Or the obstacles I once used them for while riding my little motorcycle in circles around the house, imagining myself as some professional stunt driver leading the pack and winning the race. All while changing the makeup of the yard, as I threw dirt and grass every which way.
There is a beautiful front porch now. You know the kind: brick steps, iron railing, columns, two-person wooden swings on either side; the whole bit. My 2 year old son can now navigate the steps almost perfectly; growing from the crawling little pudgy boy to a full-out running, climbing little boy who is a magnet for anything dangerous. We now almost completely neglect the courtyard that was put in years ago and intended for a jacuzzi. It's where I had my Halloween-themed birthday party one year and dressed up in my Grandmother's ball gown and a tiara. Stuffed bra and all. Twelve years old is a hard time for a young, petite girl, after all.
But what really got me thinking about changes was when I saw the pictures she posted online.
Let me back up.
For three generations, my family has attended the same school. It's one of those literal brick-and-mortar schools built way back when; you know, when schools looked like factories. Not like jails, like they do now. Trust me, I'm a teacher. I know.
I still remember those hallways, the offices, the stairways. I remember each classroom and the way they smelled (does that make me weird?). I remember the trophies in the glass display boxes that attested to the amount of talent our school possessed. I remember how tall the front office desk seemed to be when I was there.
All of that now is a pile of dust and rubble, ruins and memories. The pictures were demolition pictures. And as I viewed the first few, all of those memories were brought back with a vengeance. I remembered the feelings of walking through the halls with my girlfriends, the butterflies I felt when that special boy came in view, the designated floors for each separate grade level.
But then I saw the holes in the building, the brick that had stood for so long was now lying on the ground as though it was worth nothing.
The memories essentially erased. But really, I have to ask: are they?
Are memories erased as easily as keystrokes in a blog? That's the beauty of change: the physical may look different, may be torn down and rebuilt as something new. But those memories are forever ingrained. They are permanent, innate.
The physical is a separate being, that which serves as a visual reminder. But our memories become a part of us, a part of our heritage, who we are; and therefore are unable to be forgotten.
I once designed a lesson for my students about oral histories. They aren't widespread now, but I think they're of importance. Oral histories are a part of what helps keep those memories alive. Even without pictures, even without the actual "thing" oral histories provide a means for memories to travel down through generations.
So, yes, change is sometimes hard to embrace. That which has come to be relied upon as a cornerstone in a community, of a family, is simply the physical manifestation of that which is innately there: it's the memories we make and share that are of supreme importance.
