Sunday, February 27, 2005

The boy is scary

We spent most of the weekend cleaning out some of the last things we hadn't previously gotten to at the other house. The living room has been serving mostly as storage space during the renovations, since it's not undergoing major renovation. All it's getting is new paint, carpet and plantation shutters.

The painters are almost ready to paint the room, so the time came to clear out lots of what we had stored in there. We cleaned, threw out some stuff and moved other items to new places in the house, so the room would be ready for painting.

Anyhow, the title of this post relates to the following. While going through some old stuff, I found a small handmade doll in a plastic bag. With it was a note that said, "Made for me by Grandma Esti in 1931."

As I read that, I called out to Marc, "I wonder who Grandma Esti was." Without missing a beat, he called back, "that was Nana Fay's mother." Nana Fay is my maternal grandmother. She must have written the note and given it to my mother at some point (my mother was born in 1935, four years after the date on the note, so that leads to the conclusion that my grandmother wrote the note).

Okay, so you followed that? I couldn't remember who "Grandma Esti" was, but Marc knew instantly (by the way, Esti is short for Esther). That's how he is. He soaks up information like that and forever has it at his fingertips. He's been a part of my family for a long time, but that still doesn't diminish this ability of his to recall such details. I sure can't remember all of these things, and I really feel like a heel for it. I suppose that's just the way I am. It's not that I don't care, but these things just don't stick well in my memory.

1 comment:

Tuna Girl said...

I have no memory. I don't remember our first kiss, our first "I love you," our first time to, um, be together.

If it wasn't for my husband, I'd have no history what-so-ever.

Though I do remember in vivid detail his botched marriage proposal and that time I threw-up on him.