Meant to do this post-warrior dash & climbing session but fell asleep... whoops!
Day 18, Saturday: Tell a story from your
childhood. Dig deep and try to be descriptive about what you remember and how
you felt.
Hm, I've had some difficulty picking out a specific memory. It's hard to really focus on an earlier childhood memory because did you know that each time you remember/recall something, your brain distorts and edits it a little bit. That means the memories that you recall the most, that burn brightest from the past, are actually the most distinct and distant from what actually happened? So the good becomes SUPER good, or turns mediocre; while the bad typically becomes SUPER bad. I'm not making this up, it's proven by science. I'w just too lazy to back it up, so just check out wikipedia or something =)
OK, so knowing what we do about memory, this is probably an amalgamation of a couple different days rolled into one memory. It's about killing and gutting a fish so if you're squeamish, I'll see you on the next post:
My family vacations have been, since before I can remember, a trip down to Oak Ridge and Knoxville, TN to my Grandpa's houseboat and/or Aunt and Uncle's house on the dammed up Tennessee River. Because the current is practically nonexistent, and my sisters were a particularly creative type as kids, we've always referred to it as simply "The Lake."
We used to fish off the houseboat and dock and I can't remember the first time I caught a fish, but I remember the first time I watched my grandpa clean a fish. I was probably about 5, maybe younger. Like I said, my brain may be somewhat unreliable when remembering . Wearing our well-worn Garfield (TM) life vests as we had to whenever out on the deck of the boat, even when docked, my sisters and I peered curiously at the bucket of fish -- probably 3 or 4 -- caught that day. With practiced skill, my grandpa scooped a fish out of the bucket and quickly and cleanly cut its head right off.
There was nothing violent or visceral about the act. It was done pragmatically and with purpose. Dinner would be served in about an hour. I became engrossed in the distinct textures of the outside and inside, the cool, sleek, metallic-blue scales and the warm soft red insides.
Other than the cherries sneaked from a neighbor's trees or wild strawberries in my mom's garden, this was the first time I had ever seen my food alive before eventually making its way to my mouth. I was fascinated. My grandpa, characteristically, faked shoving the headless fish in to my face and then showed me the "bubble," the bladder a fish can fill with and release air to either float or sink in the water. I touched the slick, sticky membrane, giggling reactively in the way children do when faced with something new they can't quite comprehend.
I'm not sure why this memory came up or what that means about me that this was what I choose to write about. I can't wait to see everyone else's memories!
OK, so knowing what we do about memory, this is probably an amalgamation of a couple different days rolled into one memory. It's about killing and gutting a fish so if you're squeamish, I'll see you on the next post:
My family vacations have been, since before I can remember, a trip down to Oak Ridge and Knoxville, TN to my Grandpa's houseboat and/or Aunt and Uncle's house on the dammed up Tennessee River. Because the current is practically nonexistent, and my sisters were a particularly creative type as kids, we've always referred to it as simply "The Lake."
We used to fish off the houseboat and dock and I can't remember the first time I caught a fish, but I remember the first time I watched my grandpa clean a fish. I was probably about 5, maybe younger. Like I said, my brain may be somewhat unreliable when remembering . Wearing our well-worn Garfield (TM) life vests as we had to whenever out on the deck of the boat, even when docked, my sisters and I peered curiously at the bucket of fish -- probably 3 or 4 -- caught that day. With practiced skill, my grandpa scooped a fish out of the bucket and quickly and cleanly cut its head right off.
There was nothing violent or visceral about the act. It was done pragmatically and with purpose. Dinner would be served in about an hour. I became engrossed in the distinct textures of the outside and inside, the cool, sleek, metallic-blue scales and the warm soft red insides.
Other than the cherries sneaked from a neighbor's trees or wild strawberries in my mom's garden, this was the first time I had ever seen my food alive before eventually making its way to my mouth. I was fascinated. My grandpa, characteristically, faked shoving the headless fish in to my face and then showed me the "bubble," the bladder a fish can fill with and release air to either float or sink in the water. I touched the slick, sticky membrane, giggling reactively in the way children do when faced with something new they can't quite comprehend.
I'm not sure why this memory came up or what that means about me that this was what I choose to write about. I can't wait to see everyone else's memories!
1 comment:
ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwww yucky!
xoxo
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