Are we real without our memories? If the stories aren't preserved, did they happen?

The next set is only me-- moodily staring into a mirror, mugging on my 7th birthday, the aftermath of a tantrum, 4th grade Halloween and the inevitable school set. On the following page a backyard romp with the McCormick cousins, Sandy playing in the yard, the porch, the basement, the living room.

Still glued in place, we get back on the next page to Andy and Sandy, joined by our neighbor, also Andy (whose sister was also Sandy). A set of photos trying to recreate a famous toddler shot of my brother and me looking adorably into each others eyes. The pre-teen creation is not so adorable, as we kept laughing. The two Andys with me in the "portrait studio." Leaf jumping, a visit to Valley Forge, looking at the Telstar satellite, setting out on a Sunday outing with my dad, all dressed up.

What does a memory feel like? Is it a photograph or a dream? Is it a movie that I inhabit, or one that I watch? When I say I don't remember, am I simply misunderstanding memory? I remember Valley Forge. I can see in my mind's eye the soldiers' cabins, the Susquehana River, the redoute forts. I can place my child-self in these images. These are actual memories, or what I think a memory must be: snippets of sensation-view, sound, movement, emotion, sense. Perhaps it is best that I cannot post these photos, because then they become like my experience of memory-- I know these, but I cannot produce them. I can only know them.

When I say I do not remember, perhaps I only mean, I do not know, or even I am not there. I think that if you dropped me off at my house on Ellis Road, I could easily walk to Oakmont school or even to the junior high school, more than a mile away. I know how to do that. Does this mean I remember this or only that I know this? Is there a difference?

I always say that I have trouble bringing up an actual "memory," but I remember walking these routes. I could even tell you the name of the two streets to walk down-- Cleveland and Darby. I could point out Diane's house, and Andy's, and Jan's. I might actually be able to find my way to Paula's house on the way to school. Right now, thinking about it, I have "memories:" driving down Darby Road with the chains on the tires. I can hear the whirring sound. Diane stepping off the sidewalk into the snow to let a nun pass. Cutting through the backyard to Jan's house hoping for an invitation to sit in her wading pool. Scaring Jan's baby sister Beth with a bug. Dancing to 45s in Jan's bedroom. The first day of 7th grade, which was the first day I learned that I would have to meet new people and that they would not be universally nice.

So perhaps what "not remembering" means is that I do not bring up these recollections. I think that we use our children and grandchildren for this-- remember me, remember these experiences that I had, because they make me real.