A Moment in Time


What is it that makes you who you are?  What makes you think the way you do?  These are questions everyone wonders about and some people say that it is a combination of your personality, the way others treat you, and the environment you grow up in.  I believe that each of these things contributes to the way you think, the person you eventually become, but what about the memories?  Aren’t memories an imprint in your brain of the most significant things in your life? Surely they must have some impact on who you grow up to be.  If you took away people’s memories you would take away the most precious of gifts.  For memories shape who you are and the way you see the world around you.  If you hadn’t remembered the time you saw a snake in your back garden then you wouldn’t be afraid to go down there.  If you hadn’t remembered that your dad killed that snake with a swipe of a shovel head then he wouldn’t have been your childhood hero and if you hadn’t remembered all the times your mum comforted you after a fall then you wouldn’t see her as your consolation and reassurance.  Memories can make you smile and they can make you cry.  They shape the way you see people and they can help you to figure out what is really important to you, what you value most in life.  My grandfather died when I was four years old and this memory helps keep his love for me alive even though it is just a short moment, frozen with clarity in the most important part of my mind - my memory…

I am running, running really fast and the laughter flows from my mouth in short bursts as the hands reach out to catch me.  They are old, lined hands, hands that have worked with and battled all of nature’s tempers.  The hands match the face, the laughing, smiling face which is saying “Come give me a sugar,” in a voice that is accented with the deep southern drawl of Oklahoma.  At the last possible moment I stop and stick my tongue out in a childish gesture that is meant to tease, to provoke a reaction.  “Come and get me pap,” I shriek while my laughter becomes hysterical.  His face creases as a boom of laughter leaves his lips, “Are you being cheeky, Jess?” he drawls.  It is spoken in a joking voice and the laughter bubbles from me once again.  I turn my back deliberately and run for the other end of the room.  My three year old legs are pumping furiously and my breath is short from laughing.  “Jess, come and give your old pappy a sugar.”  He tries to make his face serious but his voice shows he is laughing at my mischief.  I stand against the wall giggling, knowing that ‘sugar’ is Pappy’s word for a kiss.  “Come on Jess,” he drawls coaxingly and I am off, racing towards the big carved chair in which my grandfather is sitting.  I stumble and my legs strain to keep me upright.  This time there is no stopping and I launch myself into his waiting arms.  They are arms that are strong from years of working and they wrap me up in a huge bear hug while he plants butterfly kisses over my face and neck.  I am laughing and shrieking “Let me go pap, let me go.”  He laughs his deep booming laugh and sits me on his lap; I snuggle into his arms and breathe deeply.  He smells of Old Spice aftershave and his clothes smell of dust and oil reminding me of the way our farm smells.  He looks at me with shining blue eyes and I don’t see the oldness or the tiredness.  I see strength, warmth, happiness, the man who will play with me and tease me, and I see something else.  Something I can now identify as love.