Millions of thoughts and images pop in and out of our minds every second of every day. These are, or soon will be our memories—some recent and some from long ago. As we grow older, long-ago memories become dimmer, and some may take on the qualities of a dream. We may question whether or not what we remember really happened. Or we might recall fleeting scraps of the memory, and unsuccessfully struggle to bring them into focus. We might have the vague fear that it might be the beginning of Alzheimer’s, but it usually isn’t, we tell ourselves, everyone has this happen as they age.
A new study by Dr. Patricia Bauer, at Emory University suggests that our earliest memories begin to fade at age 7. Older children remember fewer events, but the ones they remember have more detail. Apparently, more advanced language skills enable older children to better elaborate the memory, further cementing it in their minds.
The latest research notwithstanding, we vary in the ages that our earliest memories show up. My son claims he remembers details of his second year, and can verify this with stories that ring true. I, on the other hand, can’t recall anything before the age of 5. But my earliest memory is so compelling that I revisit again and again, hoping to eke out a particle of preceding events.
In my memory, I am climbing up an incline, carrying a tin pail. It is a summer evening, and my parents are both with me. My mother says something—I can remember the tone of her voice—it is young and clear. I would give anything to recall what she said. Why did I remember that scrap of my experience? What was significant about it? Of course I will never know.
This small memory is unimportant in the larger scheme of things, and certainly in my own life. But it is important in that it is part of the mosaic of our times. Many in my generation climbed a small incline on a country road or field at some time, carrying a tin pail, most likely at berry-picking time. The larger picture reveals what is not shown—the big, clean sky, the densely forested expanse, the people pausing in their workday to say a few kind words to their child, who stays with them while they work.
Of course, not everyone in the world had access to a wide expanse of the countryside at that time. Some children lived in industrial Europe, among polluted mills and factories. Some experienced brutal conditions in overcrowded cities in Asia and South America. But here in North America, this was the norm. Old black and white pictures can’t bring these memories to life. Old movies, also black and white, don’t usually feature people living and working in small towns and the country. It may be only in the collective memories of the people of this generation that these images exist, in full colour, with the sounds and smells and sights intact.
Through the years, my siblings and I frequently discussed these memories when we were together, checking them over and over for accuracy and emotional overlay. We do less of this as we age and come to terms with our background and childhood. But still, I’m reluctant to relegate them to the back corners of my mind. I don’t know what purpose it serves, but I still go back to my early days, and simply remember.
Picture depicted is the author at age 9.