The Persistence of Memory
By Karen Backman
Memory is a funny thing. Scientists and psychologists are finding out that people can generate very realistic but completely false memories based on suggestions made during the course of psychoanalysis. However, even when faced with facts which prove that the memories are false, patients have a hard time dismissing them. I understand that, because I am still a little bit afraid of lightning.
I remember the night my fear of lightning was born. I was about seven years old, and my family and I were visiting my Farmor (Swedish for father's mother) at her home in Coos Bay. We had spent the day at the beach, playing in the sand and the sea, and we were exhausted. Normally that would have meant an early bedtime, but Dad announced that there would be an electrical storm, and that we could stay up to watch.
At the first rumble of thunder, we crowded the whole family onto Farmor's tiny porch. My older sister and I sat on the porch railing and watched as the sheet lightning turned the sky lavender. I loved the lightning, but the thunder scared me a little bit, because it was sudden and loud, and I could feel its vibration in the pit of my stomach. Dad taught us to count the seconds between the lightning and the thunder to figure out how far away the storm was. We counted nine seconds after the next lavender flash, and then we heard the boom of thunder. The next pair were only seven seconds apart, then six, then four. By the time we got to three, the rain had begun.
We sat on the porch for more than an hour listening to the rain fall as the storm receded. Dad talked about static electricity and friction and conductivity. Mom told us about the time that lightning struck a giant maple tree in the neighbor's field, and split it all the way to the ground. I was horrified that anything as beautiful as lightning could do such damage. On any other night, I would have lain awake and pondered this new aspect of lightning, but it had been too long a day, and I fell asleep immediately.
It seemed like I'd only been asleep for a minute when my mother shook me awake, whispering urgently for me to get up and get dressed. My sister and I sat up groggily and stared at the light coming through the window. It should be sunlight, I knew, if it was time to get up, but it was still the silver glow of the streetlight on the corner. But Mom was insistent, so my sister and I slid out of bed and dressed, shivering, in the near-dark. Then we hurried downstairs, where Dad was waiting for us, and left the house.
While we walked down the street and around the corner, Dad explained to us that the Millington Store was on fire. We sat down on the median strip between the Frontage Road and Highway 101 to watch. The whole building was engulfed in flames. The volunteer firefighters seemed to be fighting a losing battle. From our vantage point, it looked as though they were trying to extinguish a bonfire with squirt guns. They kept at it until almost dawn, but by then the store had burned to the ground, and they were mostly just dousing it to make sure the fire didn't spread.
I was asleep in my father's arms by the time we got back to Farmor's house. We didn't talk much about the fire the next day, although it was mentioned on the news, accompanied by a picture of the smoking pile of rubble that was all that remained of the store. For many years after that, I had nightmares about lightning striking the homes of my loved ones every time there was a storm. I would wake up shaking in the darkness, and pray fervently for the safety of family and friends until I slipped back into an uneasy sleep.
When I was eighteen years old, childhood fears came up in conversation at Thanksgiving, and I told this story. There was an uncomfortable silence when I'd finished, and then my aunt said gently, "Honey, the Millington Store wasn't struck by lightning. The man who owned the store lived in an apartment upstairs, and he fell asleep on his couch with a cigarette in his hand. It fell on the carpet and started the fire." I was stunned. I looked toward my sister, expecting to see my look of disbelief reflected in her face, but she was looking at me quizzically, nodding her agreement with the others in the room. I was alone in my ignorance.
Over the years, I have come to believe that perception is, indeed, reality. Although I now know the facts about that fire, I still cannot shake my feelings of fear. Every time I see a flash of lightning, I have a little flashback to that fire.