"Sensory memory is so strange!" Heidi noted this morning as she reached down to give Odie the miniature Schnauzer a farewell pat. "My family's first dog was a Schnauzer, and even though we lost him 30 years ago, I remember he felt just like this," she sighed.
I know how she felt. My whole weekend was filled with tiny deja vu moments. Everything from the grass in the fields- soft flat blades, plantain, a few dandelions, and a healthy dose of clover, mowed to about 3 inches- to the shiny tar on the pavement and the softball-sized Jersey peaches for sale at all number of roadside stands, reminded me of things I didn't even know I'd forgotten.
In fact, such memories were much more powerful and satisfying than seeing the things I thought I remembered today. The schools where I began my education were shabby and worn as were the neighborhoods and landmarks I recalled. (Although the liquor store that used to deliver cases of beer to our home and pick up the returnables did have a certain retro cool.)
Our last stop on memory lane was also a disappointment. Rancocas Woods, a historic colonial-style shopping village was still there, but gone were all the sticky-trunked Pitch Pines that shed their needles onto the sandy soil, as was the old wooden wagon and stocks where our out-of-town guests were always invited to poke their heads and wrists through for a little taste of early-American justice.
The candle store where we shopped for extra special gifts for my mom was closed, but the antique place was still open. As I browsed through the merchandise, I had to laugh at some of the items they had for sale: the last time I was there, those Corning bowls and 1974 road map of New Jersey were brand new.
In a tiny shop crammed with Colonial Christmas carolers and cocktail napkins, though, I found some hand-dipped bayberry tapers, and just like the other small details, they ignited a memory, too. My Aunt Sis bought them whenever we shopped there, and they always graced her home and holiday table.
Now I have some, too.
I know how she felt. My whole weekend was filled with tiny deja vu moments. Everything from the grass in the fields- soft flat blades, plantain, a few dandelions, and a healthy dose of clover, mowed to about 3 inches- to the shiny tar on the pavement and the softball-sized Jersey peaches for sale at all number of roadside stands, reminded me of things I didn't even know I'd forgotten.
In fact, such memories were much more powerful and satisfying than seeing the things I thought I remembered today. The schools where I began my education were shabby and worn as were the neighborhoods and landmarks I recalled. (Although the liquor store that used to deliver cases of beer to our home and pick up the returnables did have a certain retro cool.)
Our last stop on memory lane was also a disappointment. Rancocas Woods, a historic colonial-style shopping village was still there, but gone were all the sticky-trunked Pitch Pines that shed their needles onto the sandy soil, as was the old wooden wagon and stocks where our out-of-town guests were always invited to poke their heads and wrists through for a little taste of early-American justice.
The candle store where we shopped for extra special gifts for my mom was closed, but the antique place was still open. As I browsed through the merchandise, I had to laugh at some of the items they had for sale: the last time I was there, those Corning bowls and 1974 road map of New Jersey were brand new.
In a tiny shop crammed with Colonial Christmas carolers and cocktail napkins, though, I found some hand-dipped bayberry tapers, and just like the other small details, they ignited a memory, too. My Aunt Sis bought them whenever we shopped there, and they always graced her home and holiday table.
Now I have some, too.
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