The Memory Necklace

Everything has a story.

Around the age of ten, I started to notice things about people I hadn’t noticed before. Like how Michelle got to play outside way after dark and I had to be home by the time the streetlights came on. Lisa went on lots of vacations to places I dreamed of going. And how Molly had more pairs of designer shoes than I had socks. It is so easy to compare things when you don’t know the whole story.

I would point these things out to my parents sometimes and they would just say, “Hmmm…,” in a way that said they had a thought but weren’t sure they wanted to share it. In response, I would say something like, “You know, not many people are even out after dark, what could really happen?” (What was I thinking!?!?) Or, “Two weeks in Florida sounds fun. Can we go?” I wasn’t trying to compare myself to the other kids, but I was tossing the question, “How awesome are they?” around in my head quite a bit. I am guessing some of you have done this same thing at least once. You take one thing about a person, out of context, and assume you know more than you do. Michelle’s mom knows she’s big enough to take care of herself. Lisa’s family thinks it’s important to see exotic locations and meet new people. And Molly’s family knows how important staying on top of fashion trends is. Yeah, right!

Here are the stories I didn’t know then. Michelle’s mom had a new boyfriend who didn’t like kids, so the less Michelle was around, the better. Her mother didn’t even know where she was most of the time. Lisa’s father had an insane need to compete with his brother, who made 3x the amount of money he did, so he was in debt up to his eyeballs trying to keep up with all the stuff the other family did. Eventually, they lost their house. And Molly’s mother loved to visit with the other moms and tell all about her new job. All the travel, all the money, all the promotional events she planned and attended. She never noticed that while the other moms were talking about their kids and families, she didn’t mention Molly once. Not once.

I feel like a lot of the time, things are pretty clear cut, and are not this strange. But either way, there is always a story behind it. One of my friends recently told me a story of how she sped through traffic late one afternoon, getting around cars as quickly as she could, all the while she’s covered in paint with her hair piled haphazardly all over her head. And because she spent every moment making sure her family was attended to, she never paid much attention to the car she drove and it was quite old and much loved. Take a second a try to picture her.

Completely a mess, she is clearly not late for work. No children in the car, so no one is headed to the hospital. She looked like a dirty, crazy woman, speeding around town with no regard for anyone around her. Pretty clear cut, right? Well, the one thing they couldn’t see was the family cat draped across her lap, dying. And the one thing they didn’t know is how much hope this person held in her heart that if she could just get to the vet fast enough, it would all be okay.

The woman with the cat is still my friend today, but I haven’t seen the other three girls in thirty years. What I learned from their stories, though, has stayed with me and I hope I never forget that just because I don’t know the whole story, doesn’t mean there isn’t one out there.

Growing up, I learned many hidden stories from my friends, and grew to love them so much that I started looking for them everywhere. In biography shows, news reports, magazine articles. Unfortunately, those stories were harder to remember because I had no personal connection and they passed by me so quickly. The issue of not remembering every story that made an impression bothered my greatly…until my first year in college when I met someone with an idea, and more stories than I thought possible.

Mrs. Artista (I’ll tell you about the name in a bit.) stood at the front of a plain white room, under harsh, fluorescent lights, and facing at least 50 desks, full of students enrolled in an art history class. It was the least artistic room you could imagine. She welcomed us, telling a little bit about herself and how she came to be there. She was primarily an artist, dabbling a little in many areas – painting, pottery, etc – but taught part time for a little bit of steady income. I became nervous wondering how much effort she planned on putting into a job she needed instead of a job she wanted, but she seemed friendly, in a favorite aunt, have a cookie kind of way, so I made sure to smile when she looked my direction. And she did. She looked at everyone – directly in the eye. After a short while, it didn’t feel like she was standing in front of a class, it felt like she was standing in front of each one of us and having a personal conversation.

When she finished, she clapped her hands twice and called for the lights to be turned off. As a student flicked the switch, a small projector tucked behind her on an otherwise empty desk hummed to life and a large array of colors illuminated the front wall of the room. It was a slide of Rodin’s The Thinker.

“I will show you many pieces of art this semester,” she said. “Some famous, some not so famous. What I want you to remember most is that each of them has a story. I will spend our classes telling you the stories that I have learned, but my hope for you is simply that you learn to appreciate the fact that there is always more to the story, if you will just take time to think about it.”

For an entire hour (that felt like five minutes) she showed slide after slide of works of art, telling us well-known and little-known stories about each one. (I think she was also part professional storyteller because not once did I hear snoring in the very dark room!) It was fascinating and I remember more from her classes than I do most of the others I took during college.

Anyway, at the end of the class, the lights came on and as a parting activity she had us each introduce ourselves. She wanted us to feel more comfortable with discussions and wanted to break the ice, but before we started she said there would be a prize for the person who remembered the most names/faces at the following class. From her pocket, she withdrew a tiny clay pot swirling with all the colors of the earth. The roundness of the middle came together at the neck where a black, satin string was tied just below a little piece of cork that closed off the top.

“This is a memory necklace,” she said. “For every story that is in my head, there are at least two that I have forgotten. Whether it is a story of art, or a story of someone who has crossed my path, if they have touched my life in way that changes it, or changes the way I think or want to be, I don’t want to take a chance that I will forget. To help me, I keep this. When I hear a story, meet a person, or encounter something that I want to remain a part of me, I write it down and tuck it in here. That way, even if I am not always thinking about them, they are always with me.”

It was like she spoke directly to me.

The class continued and we all told our names and a couple things about ourselves. Normally, I stink at remembering names, but in my mind that necklace had been waiting for me for a long time – and two days later, I was the only one to remember the names of every student.

I had that necklace for many, many years and I know it has to be packed safely away, but lately I have been thinking about it more and more. I have been gathering names that need to be kept safe. So in its absence I am creating a new memory vase (I am optimistic that there will be more names than what will fit in the necklace.) and have two stories to put in. One is of a little girl who started her own clothing line and make-up video collection. She died of cancer earlier this year. The second is of a man who recently dove into a shallow river to save a little girl from drowning. He broke his back in the process and later died of his injuries. It was revealed after his death that two weeks prior to the incident he had pulled a truck driver from a burning vehicle and saved that man’s life too. Two weeks, two lives. These are the first entries into my memory vase of stories. If you were to make one, what stories would you keep safe?

(Mrs. Artista is what I call the wonderful artist and teacher who created the memory necklace because I didn’t think to put her name inside the vase before my memory lost her true name.)