Did you know that music might enhance how we remember our travels? I read the suggestion to anchor our travels to specific songs after I slid down an internet rabbit hole about memory recall. It got me to thinking….
Any time I hear Three Dog Night’s Joy to the World, I’m whisked back onto a bus filled with other eighth graders visiting Washington, D.C. from Saginaw, Michigan. We’d ridden through the night, and we awakened to sunshine and cherry blossoms spilling off limbs in pink and white, their scent a subtle mix of almonds and lilacs. I think I remember the worn-out expressions the chaperones wore. (They had to have been exhausted, but did I really see that back then? Or am I empathizing right now?) During the trip, I’m guessing we crammed in tours all day long (none of which I remember). The same goes for roommates. I must have had one or two, but I don’t recall who they were.
What I do remember about that trip is anchored in the music—the singing on the bus. There was another song, equally rousing but bitter in a way I didn’t understand then as well as I do now. Performed by Country Joe McDonald and the Fish, it protested the disparate draft system of the Vietnam War, which still waged on. Whether you’ve heard the song before or not, it deserves a listen—and maybe a moment to ponder. I’ve included a link to the version without the famous Fish Cheer that often got things started. (But in case little ears are near, please note the F-bomb still pops up shortly before the two-minute mark):
Oh, the memories. I loved revisiting that trip in my mind, but I had to dig deep to remember. The music helped, maybe because linear thinking doesn’t come naturally to me, the way it does to Rice. He can recall the oddest, most miniscule details without much prompting at all.
“Remember our move from Michigan to Colorado?” I ask, looking back to see myself seated behind the wheel of our Citation, where our cat, Harry, is crouched in the back seat, ears erect. We’re following Rice and our dog, Sam, in the U-Haul rental. I’m jarred by the starkness of the landscape as we cross the Nebraska state line, where a sign taunts: Welcome to Colorful Colorado.
“What parts of the move do you mean?” Rice piggybacks. Then, without waiting for my response, his gaze drifts off as his memories kick in. “I remember having to pull off the highway in Gary, Indiana in search of another U-Haul rental place.”
“What??”
“You remember,” he prods. “About four hours into the drive, the truck’s alternator light popped on.”
“Oh.” I furrow my brow, then quickly correct my expression to try to cover my tracks. “Right.”
But I don’t remember. And suddenly I’m irritated, thinking back on the hundreds of times I’ve struggled to remember things the way normal people do. Then I’m haunted by more rabbit hole research finds, ones that point out the advantages of a good memory, like better test scores, higher self-confidence, reduced anxiety and frustration, improved sleep quality, improved social interaction…. Ugh.
I grit my teeth. “God’s playing a joke on me again,” I grouse. “Why else would I feel compelled to write a travelogue about our forty-plus years together when I can’t remember shit?”
“I can help you,” Rice says. “And don’t be so hard on yourself. You know that having a bad memory has its upsides.”
“Oh, really?” I try not to roll my eyes. “How is it good that I can forget I’ve seen a movie, start to watch it, and then remember halfway through that ‘Oh, yeah,’ I’ve seen this before?”
His lips twitch. “Do you remember how it ends?”
He’s got me there. Chances are, I don’t. And even if I watch it again all the way through, I still may not remember the ending. I’ll fall asleep or just plain forget. That’s how I roll.
Then again…I bet I’ll remember the hell out of its soundtrack.
