How many times have we been told to hear the other side of
the story? To not jump to conclusions until we have heard all the versions and
gathered all the possible facts? How many times as children did we get in
trouble and when it came time to give an account, all parties were asked to
tell their stories? Many times, I would guess.
The problem arises though, that when we listen to all stories
we are left with so many versions. How can we possibly know which really
happened or if any of it really happened at all? Does it matter if we find out
which is true?
In the opening chapter of The Marriage of Cadmus and Harmony we are presented with many
different versions of the story of Europa and Zues. These variations probably
come from the inaccuracy of oral tradition. Every time a story is retold, details can be lost or added due to the fallibility of the teller’s memory.
We were asked in our last class to try to recall our
earliest memory. I have had difficulty with this, as I have many possible
memories and very little idea of their relative time. I have also heard many
stories of my early childhood, and now find it difficult to determine which of
the images in my head have been imagined to fit a particular story and which are
real memories. I may have a few scattered recollections of my family’s move to
my childhood home when I was two and these would probably be my earliest
memories. But I have also heard many stories about this time, and these
pictures could have come from them.
How can I really know? And does it matter? Regardless of where
these memories come from, they have become a part of who I am, my history.
"Only Memory Pictures"
There are many treasured pictures
hung on Memory’s wall,
are the fairest ones of all.
I can see the rustic cottage,
the fields of golden grain,
The mill and the old red schoolhouse
beside the shady lane;
I see the roses blooming
in fragrance by the door;
And the little blue-eyed baby
playing on the kitchen floor.
Only Memory’s pictures
that now I recall
From cherished scenes of gladness,
they come to bless us all.
Only the dreams of a childhood,
gone forever more,
of those happy days of yore!
I can see my loving mother
smiling on me there,
And the kindly face of father
as his goodnight kiss I share.
By the fireside with her knitting,
is grandma, bent and gray;
And hark! there’s the old clock ticking
the fleeting hours away.
Ah! these are childhood’s visions
that cheer the lonely heart;
Bringing Memory’s sweetest pictures,
that from life can ne’er depart.
No comments:
Post a Comment