Anamnesis

Reminiscence: remembering things past; a collection in literary form of incidents and experiences remembered. 
~ Oxford Dictionary of Current English, Oxford University Press, 1992

     Such an elegant word, drumming up any number of memories; good or bad, traumatic or ecstatic, inspiring one to laugh or mope, sigh or wince, pucker the lips thoughtfully, or roll the eyes.
     I could reminisce over my late grandmother’s 100^th birthday. A couple of months before, when it looked like she ‘just might make it’, the birthday celebration evolved into a family reunion; she sat in a chair on her front lawn like a national monument, while various branched groups of the family posed behind her.
     Also, no one established who’d be responsible for getting Grandma her birthday cake. She wound up with three cakes, and a giant chocolate chip cookie.  We still laugh about it.
     But birthday reminiscing is like the saying: ‘Life’s a funny old dog’. How many people can say their most memorable birthday was spent driving their parent to a chemo appointment? Or, recovering from having a cantaloupe-sized tumor removed.
     Exercising a memory from long past can have a therapeutically cathartic outcome. Experiences that I didn’t understand in my younger days can be wisely appreciated by this Jenn-Xer. (Had to be written.)
     Yah, I still exhibit a mental flinch from nonsensical relationships—memories better left in an active incinerator, rather than the storage unit of my brain. I don’t envy younger generations that’ll have their every random thought or opinion documented for digital infinity. When I imagine if such tech existed in my high school days…? Oy vey! Sigh-filled reminiscence over something that DIDN’T happen! (Whew!)
     And there can be a fine line between reminiscence, and nostalgia, so long as your thoughts remain positive. But, doesn’t a random negative memory typically snap out, tainting the nostalgia with that flinch?
     I can reminisce the day long on my favorite holiday—Mardi Gras—adding mental hiccups of Bourbon Street boozers who never seem capable of holding their Hurricanes. Of hurricanes, strong and brutal, that lashed at my stable, brick home, snuffing out the most enduring light, wrapping my picture window vision in black velvet.
     Reminiscence of my upbringing in a burb of San Francisco was never one of affluence, despite anyone’s argument that being white made things easy for me. Ministers and their families may be the ‘pillars of the community’, but single-income opulence is not a thing if your father’s not on PTL. One would actually have to stick their head in the sand to not notice my dining on the government’s school-lunch program in the cafeteria; 10₵ a day kept me and many of my classmates fed, with the added perk of convincing me that spinach was supposed to look like boiled seaweed.
     I presumed every town and every school resembled the ‘Americana’ that was Vallejo. It took moving to the PNW to grasp that inaccurate distinction. Talk about woke. Appreciation for having attended ‘Melting Pot Jr. High’ was its own form of culture shock after being registered into ‘Wonder Bread High’.
     Cake is another method of musing; forming the tradition of baking one for your parent’s birthday, asking them what flavor they want, is always done with love. And it recently occurred to me that I hadn’t baked one for my mother’s birthday, the last two summers. Why didn’t I? Why did I stop? She loved lemon cake and lemon frosting. And I stopped making them. I still post the Scottish flag outside on her birthday. But there’s no excuse for not continuing to make her birthday cake, despite that she’s not around to eat it.
     Every once in a while, my recollections can inspire dropped jaws in others. My boss has teased me that surely I’ve been at the pot. I chalk it up to having a staid upbringing, with minimally excitable occurrences. But my Gemini status makes adaptability smooth.
    Whodathunk that childhood memories can make for impulsive, name-drop bragging, despite not meaning to? Something as simple as my brothers and their friend from church playing together with their Star Wars X-wing Starfighters and action figures.
     Fast-forward almost 30 years, and the friend has become a film director, screenwriter, and producer, with a résumé that includes the hit show ‘Empire’, and several Oscar nominations.
     ‘Funny old dog’ is right; it invokes retrospection when you least expect it.