Savannah Reams: Greene Publishing, Inc.
I love those moments when a simple song or smell triggers a vivid memory and … whoosh … you're rushed back in time, re-living a significant moment in your life. Whether good or bad, these moments always provide me with clarity. Moreover, they remind me of what once was—that these experiences, now passed on, were once very real, very critical seconds, minutes, hours and days of my life. Whooshes leave with me the satisfaction in knowing that the people, places and circumstances of my past live on, each a brick forming the foundation of my future.
These pivotal moments come to me with the slightest of catalysts. The smell of coffee immediately stimulates memories of my grandmother and the many times I would stay overnight at her house, waking up to the scent of her morning ritual. I begin to remember all of the happy moments. She taught me to play cards and never took it easy on me. I'm pretty certain she was highly entertained every time she beat me at crazy eights. She told me stories of her parents, grandparents and her German heritage. She made delicious cookies, candies and desserts during the holidays—a time when she really shined. On Christmas day, the whole family came together at her house. She always made it feel warm, inviting and, above all, everyone knew they were loved. She could always make me laugh—even when times were sad. I remember the night she taught me to dance the polka—we stepped and turned around her living room in our bare feet, laughing with every spin.
The sound of Southern Gospel immediately transports me to Perry, Fla. I'm sitting in the center of my great-grandparents' living room, upright, legs criss-crossed in front of their old bulky television. Together, we're watching Southern Gospel legends such as Jake Hess, Vestal Goodman and George Younce sing about Heaven. My granny stops to tell me about how great it will be when we all “meet in the air.” I didn't really understand the importance of her words until seven years later, when she went to Heaven for real. Later that night my papa retires to the front bedroom so I can snuggle with my granny in theirs. We stay up talking and I ask her to tell me a story. At first she protests that she doesn't know any, but then she tells me about the first time my papa laid eyes on her. He turned to his buddy and said, “That's the woman I'm going to marry.” She smiled really big and I noticed she smiled with her eyes as much as she did with her mouth.
The sound of an oxygen machine delivers me to the week my grandmother lay in her room, not long for this world. The machine vibrated the floors and the sound kept us awake at night. The whole family was staying that week—people filled the spare bedrooms and slept on air mattresses on the floor. Since the rooms were full, my little sister and I slept in my parents' bedroom on a sofa bed. They kept a monitor in their room to check on my grandmother throughout the night. We couldn't sleep due to the sounds that came from the device—constant reminders of the impending loss of, not only our grandmother, but our very best friend. With sleep hard to accomplish, we whispered amongst ourselves, telling jokes and stifling laughter, assured that our sense of humor in times of sorrow was a trick we'd learned from Grandmother, herself.
There's a funny connection between our senses and memories. With every hand I hold in my present, I'm reminded of the times I held the hand of those passed on. With every delicious meal I share with my family, I'm reminded of those who aren't with us to share them anymore. Every time I hear a song from my youth, I am reminded of the lessons I learned in school and the friendships I made therein. Every sight, sound, taste and touch is a reminder that I'm still alive. That I have a purpose. That every person I've encountered in my life was there for a reason and, thankfully, their memory will never fade because, just as sure as the rising sun, I'll hear an old familiar tune or smell coffee brewing early in the morning and … whoosh … there they'll be again.