Everyone has anecdotes. Little stories from their past that are amusing and entertaining. Sometimes they’re sad stories, sometimes they’re happy. A lot of times they’re really neither, and the anecdote in question simply serves as a sort of window into the teller’s past. I love this.
I’m thinking about this because I want to tell you a memory and subsequent pondering I had today. Starting to write it lead me to thinking about storytelling, so bear with me.
So, I find it interesting that the telling of anecdotes and such is so infrequent. Perhaps this is due to it being a sharing of self. Perhaps it’s because a lot of people don’t remember things, or realize that past events for them are frequently quite unique and fascinating to other people. It’s hard to say. My family, for a variety of reasons, has a sort of oral tradition of storytelling — but of remembrance rather than fiction. In fact, it’s been commented on by several people outside the family, always with the addendum that they can’t recall things from when they were, say, three or five years old. Given that, maybe it is just that a lot of people don’t even get that spark of rememberance during conversation.
In any event, on one level the telling of stories from your past is pure entertainment for the listener — sort of what reality tv wants to hook into. On a deeper level it’s the sharing of self. You’re sharing part of your life, possibly something other people didn’t have access to.
Furthermore, on a meta level, by sharing any particular memory you’re identifying not only who you were at that time, but who you are right now. In the telling, you’re not only saying, “This is what happened and this is what I thought about it”, you’re also indicating by tone of voice, inflection, and style what you think of it now. Think of the many ways one can say, “I used to be into Dungeons and Dragons in Junior High”. Disparaging, reminiscent, etc.
Lastly, on a meta meta level, by sharing a particular memory with a particular person or persons, when coupled with the previous thought, you’re essentially saying what you think about the listener by implying the reaction you are expecting. In other words, if you tell a friend a tragic story in a comic light, you are telling that friend, “This is my expectation of your reaction. I am telling you this because I think you will see it this way.” At least in a certain sense this seems true.
Wow… so a lot of stuff is going on there. I guess that makes things more understandable why people don’t tell about the gum-in-the-hair incident of 7th grade.
As for me, I enjoy telling people about things of my past for a couple reasons: 1) because I tend to get a favorable reaction from the telling, and I do enjoy entertaining people; and 2) because, to be totally upfront, the favorable reaction is a sort of validation… sort of saying, “I am Jon’s friend and I approve this message”, and thus me.
That’s why I want to tell you about something I remembered, this morning. I was getting onto the bypass on my way to work, following a slow-moving semi. I had the window cracked, so the diesel smoke eventually found its way to my nose. I’ve always loved the smell of diesel engines. It’s… comforting I guess. I’ve thought about this before, and about the only reason I can come up with for that sense of comfort from diesel exhaust, is the fact of my parents’ divorce. Well, the aftermath of it.
When my siblings and I were young (I was around 10 at the time they separated), we mostly lived with our mom in Iowa while our dad lived in Indiana. I don’t remember if it was part of the divorce agreement or if it was just worked out, but basically one parent would get us for a holiday on alternating years. And it sort of went in alternating patterns. If we were at Mom’s for Thanksgiving, we were at Dad’s for Christmas — and the next year it was Dad’s for Thanksgiving and Mom’s for Christmas. Same with birthdays. Also, there was a time when we’d come out to Dad’s for a week or two in the summer.
This translates to an extreme familiarity with Interstate 80. (Aside, to this day I don’t need to look for exit numbers when I go to mom’s, I know it by heart.)
So we travelled I80 a lot, and we always met at this one truck stop at the Lasalle-Peru exit. So many times, in fact, that I believe we’ve seen the particular restaurant we frequented change owners three times. It was always the same truck stop… a few times we went to McDonald’s, but at that point I think everyone felt that “it just wasn’t the same”. Lasalle-Peru was the halfway point. We almost always ate something. Then my parents would sit and talk, drink coffee. We’d be there for maybe an hour, my brother, sister and I playing while my Mom and Dad chatted.
Ah… I see. It was like we were a family again. I never really thought of that before. Interesting…
In any case, I have strangely fond memories of icy nights loading suitcases into the trunk, surrounded by rumbling semi trucks and the frigid air filled with diesel fumes and exhaust. So there’s the association.
I wonder if, many years into the future, I’ll still get that wistful feeling when I drive by the exit for Lasalle-Peru and don’t stop… The same wistful feeling I get whenever I pass it nowadays.
I’m doing some rough math here… Figuring approximately 8 birthday/holiday things each year, but we only drove to dad’s for half of them, 4. So… this went on for maybe 15 years. 60 trips there, but remember we had to get back… so 60 trips to dad’s, 60 trips back to mom’s. This means my family has been to that truck stop somewhere around 120 times.
It’s no wonder I can, right now, recall exactly what that restaurant smells like — when they’d just washed the floor versus not. That particular food aroma in the eating area. The orientation of the video games in the nook by the door, and the bear claw machine where my brother and I perfected our ability to grab that one toy or stuffed animal we wanted. We ended up winning a lot of crap from that machine, in the end.
So maybe I’ll always like diesel exhaust, and perhaps I’ll always have that wistful feeling when I drive by the exit. In a way, I suppose it’s kind of like driving by an old home.
