It is believed that not all of our memory is stored in the brain, that some of it is actually stored and connected to a higher realm of consciousness that exists outside of us. People have gained access to these memories through near death experiences, meditation, hypnosis and other methods, and have witnessed past lives and the afterlife.
I, however, rely on more traditional memories like the flash-bulb and personal-event memories. Both contain highly vivid details and sensory qualities for a specific moment in time. They both also have a strong belief in the accuracy of the event remembered. However, a study by psychologists in 2003 found a steady decrease in the accuracy and number of details remembered from a flashbulb memory after several months following the event. Either means, my memories stick around.
A fear of mine was being locked up in jail and that moment came when I was just a sweet and innocent 16-year-old. It was a warm Saturday night in Westmeath, with my Dad’s car I borrowed and two pals, we were itching to create some blameless havoc. It was after dark, the streets deserted when the idea struck. The chap in the back seat had a voluminous voice and when he cupped his hands he could perfectly mimic the wail of a fire engine’s siren. It was going on 2 a.m. when we selectively chose streets, not our own, where he gave his trademark sound. Within minutes, house lights lit up and people raced outside in concern. The Fire Chief reached the stationhouse in record time, warmed up the engine – but no place to go. We three surreptitiously went home. Shortly after the village closed up for the second time that night.
Sunday morning as I strolled up the main street, still chuckling over our caper, I was hastened by a police officer standing next to the Fire Chief. The officer, with last night’s mischief already public, read the riot act and declared that I was liable for a serious charge and if convicted, a sentence of up to five years. My head was suddenly filled with so much dread that I thought it would burst open! He said, “It is the Fire Chief’s decision to officially lay the charge.” As I was never a favourite of the Chief’s for previous annoyances, I was under no illusion what would happen next. I felt like a noose was tightening around my neck. The Chief railed on about my behaviour last night. The desperate pleading in my eyes seemed not to matter. Then he made his verdict, “Because this is such a small village, you’ve had your warning, and now heed it.” At that very moment I loved that man that I always hated! He gave me the biggest break I have ever had and because of it I made a solemn vow. I would never play another trick that involved fire or a fireman.
Last week was the annual spring overnight bus trip for the Riverview Seniors Social Club to Kingston. As usual, there was the hilarity, singing to YouTube songs, mature jokes and sheer silliness on the bus. After a brief stop at our motel, we boarded the Island Star for a Dinner Cruise at 6 p.m. Drinks and dinner were served with co-ordination and planning. Billy Bridger, the boat’s principle entertainer, gave a history of the islands with humorous commentary. During the dinner hour his live music show encompassed a wide-range of songs. His comedic impressions of various singers done in a Vegas-style show, while either dressed like them or with a mask or puppet of the celebrity singers, it was weird in a way but enjoyable.
The next morning was a tour of the Kingston Penitentiary, closed to inmates in 2013, and the hardened criminals, murderers and rapists all but forgotten; such as Bernardo, Olson, Wilson and others However, their stories brought to life by the efficient guides made them seem as if back in their cells once more.
The trip was too smooth. Usually there were consequences for me; late for a bus rendezvous, locked out of my room, always something. The last stop was lunch at Montana’s before heading for home. The checks were distributed. I paid for mine and for my partner Sheila, who happened to be elsewhere at that moment. Minutes later we met up and with the bill paid, we gathered at the bus with the others. Then someone from the restaurant was in our faces, saying, “Someone didn’t pay lunch, it was #13.” She looked at Sheila who looked at me and said something that can’t be repeated. She was hauled back inside, paid her bill, which I rightly thought I had paid for her. After the teasing I received subsided and the bus hit the road, the song ‘Big Spender’ was played just for me.
It is remarkable how 37 seniors and the bus driver who bonded with us, could be so accommodating with each other for 40 hours. I didn’t think it possible for myself after those risk-taking teen years. I have come a long way!
