WHY IS THE SUN ALWAYS SHINING IN OUR CHILDHOOD MEMORIES?
LIBBY PURVES ON WHY SUMMER SUMMONS UP OUR MOST VIVID EARLY EXPERIENCES
“It’s freedom, the removal of routine, that fires up the brain cells to keep the picture sharp”
IT’S THE WOOD PIGEONS THAT DO IT FOR ME. THEIR “COO-CR-OOO”, CUTTING THROUGH THE TWITTERING OF SMALL SONGBIRDS AND THE DISTANT WHOOSHING OF THE SEA, IS AS SURE A SOUND OF SUMMER AS WHEN I COULD WAKE UP ON A JULY MORNING DECADES AGO, SLEEPILY REALISING THAT IT WAS THE FIRST DAY OF THE HOLIDAYS WITH WEEKS STRETCHING AHEAD.
THESE DAYS – LIVING, INCIDENTALLY, BACK IN THE SAME SUFFOLK VILLAGE AFTER HALF A LIFETIME’S CIRCUIT THROUGH CITY LIFE – THE WOOD PIGEONS FLAPPING OUTSIDE ALSO MEAN ERECTING DEFENCES BEFORE THEY RAVAGE THE FLOWERBED. BUT STILL I LOVE THEM, ALMOST AS MUCH AS I LOVE THE HONKING GEESE OVERHEAD IN WINTER. THAT’S A HARSH, BRACING SOUND: A BACK-TO-SCHOOL SOUND. THE PIGEONS MEAN LEISURE, IDLE HOURS LYING ON THE GRASS READING OR WANDERING ALONG THE BEACH. THEY MAKE ME WANT TO CLIMB THE OLD MEDLAR TREE – LONG DEAD NOW – WHICH SPREAD AN OBLIGING LOW FLAT BRANCH FOR US CHILDREN.
WE HAD OTHER SUMMER PLACES, AS MY DAD WAS POSTED ABROAD, AND LATER ON THERE WERE TEENAGE YEARS WITH WEEKS ON THE WEST COAST OF IRELAND. THOSE MEMORIES ARE SHARP TOO, BUT SOMEHOW IT IS THE REAL CHILDHOOD TIME (BEFORE YOU EVEN BOTHER DREAMING OF BOYS) THAT FORGES THE MOST POWERFUL MEMORIES. AND FOR ME, THOSE TIMES CENTRE ON OUR DECREPIT OLD FAMILY HOME IN SUFFOLK.
PROBABLY IT OFTEN RAINED. CERTAINLY IT WAS OFTEN CHILLY BECAUSE WHEN THE EAST WIND BLOWS ROUND HERE YOU KNOW ABOUT IT. BUT MEMORY SCREENS OUT ANY FRUSTRATIONS. EVEN RAINY DAYS MEANT LONG HOURS READING ON A WINDOW-SEAT, OR HIDING IN A TENT ON THE LAWN WITH A LEAKY FLYSHEET, OR HANGING AROUND THE SUMMERONLY RIDING SCHOOL, ASKING IF YOU COULD HELP BRUSH A PONY TO WIN A FREE LESSON.
MAINLY, THOUGH, WHAT STAYS STRONGEST IS THE SENSE OF SUN ON YOUR BACK, RAGGED SHORTS AND TOPS, GRASS AND WATER AND BIKES AND FREEDOM. WHEN I TALK TO FRIENDS WHO LIVED IN THE CITY, THEIR URBAN MEMORIES SEEM JUST AS IMPORTANT:
PARKS AND BANDSTANDS, ICE CREAM ON A HOT PAVEMENT, SUBURBAN BACK GARDENS IMAGINED INTO JUNGLES.
WHY DOES SUMMER LINGER SO VIVIDLY IN OUR RECALL? MAYBE THE LONG, LIGHT DAYS CREATE A SENSE OF TIME STANDING STILL, OR MAYBE IT IS THE STRONGER ILLUMINATION THAT KEEPS IT SO FRESH IN OUR MIND, LIKE STAGE LIGHTING ON A MEMORABLE DRAMA. OR MAYBE IT IS JUST THE FREEDOM: THE SCHOOL-LESSNESS, THE REMOVAL OF ROUTINE, WHICH FIRES THE BRAIN CELLS TO KEEP THE PICTURE SHARP. PSYCHOLOGISTS HAVE DONE A LOT OF WORK ON EARLY MEMORIES, GOOD AND BAD. THE THEORY SEEMS TO BE THAT IN INFANCY OUR MEMORIES ATTACH MORE TO EMOTIONAL EVENTS THAN TIME
AND PLACE. BETWEEN AGE FIVE AND SEVEN, WE GROW AN ABILITY TO REMEMBER EVENTS AND PLACES MORE RELIABLY BECAUSE WE FORM THEM INTO STORIES, EITHER ONES WE HEAR, OR ONES WE MAKE UP FOR OURSELVES. THIS FIXES MEMORIES MORE STRONGLY – THE AMERICAN PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION SAYS THAT
ALL MEMORY IS AN ACT OF STORYTELLING, AS THE BRAIN CREATES A NARRATIVE DRAMA IN
WHICH THE PERSON REMEMBERING IS THE CENTRAL CHARACTER.
I CAN SEE HOW POWERFUL THIS STORY BUSINESS IS. I HAD A PRIVATE FANTASY, NEVER REVEALED UNTIL THIS MOMENT SIX DECADES LATER, THAT THE WORDS “MOBO” EMBOSSED ON MY RED SCOOTER WERE A CODED MESSAGE TO ME – ONLY ME! – ABOUT A GREAT HEROIC DEED I WAS TO
DO. OR POSSIBLY (IT VARIED) THE SINISTER FOREIGN NAME OF A SECRET SOCIETY CALLED THE LONE WOLVES, WHICH I HAD TO INFILTRATE. I BLAME SHERLOCK HOLMES BOOKS. BUT BECAUSE OF THAT PRIVATE STORY, I CAN STILL SEE IN MY MIND’S EYE THE FOOTPLATE OF THAT SCOOTER, THE CURVE OF THE LANE AND THE COW PARSLEY ALONG THE VERGES. AGAIN, BECAUSE AGED ABOUT TEN I ONCE WALKED BY THE RIVER AT SUNSET AND SAW A COBRA (WELL, PROBABLY A GRASS SNAKE) THAT MAKES ANOTHER POWERFUL HOOK. IN FACT ALL THOSE LITTLE SUMMER ALARMS – THINKING YOU’VE NEARLY DROWNED, DABBING LOTION ON SUNBURN – ADD TO THAT SENSE OF LIFE AS A STORY. PERHAPS THEY MAKE THE MORE ORDINARY MOMENTS ALL AROUND THEM EQUALLY LIKELY TO FIX FOR LIFE.
THE BEST POEM ABOUT CHILDHOOD SUMMER IS DYLAN THOMAS’ Fern Hill. HE WROTE IT WHEN HE WAS OVER 30, HAD LOST FRIENDS IN THE WAR, WAS POOR AND BROKE AND DRINKING TOO MUCH. YET OUT COMES THAT MARVELLOUS TUMBLE OF WORDS: “NOW AS I WAS YOUNG AND EASY UNDER THE APPLE BOUGHS, ABOUT THE LILTING HOUSE AND HAPPY AS THE GRASS WAS GREEN…” HE CATCHES THE SENSE OF A CHILDHOOD KINGDOM: HIS STORY OF HIMSELF AS PRINCE OF BARNS AND DAISIES AND PEBBLES AND STREAMS. LIKE AE HOUSMAN’S LINES ABOUT “THE LAND OF LOST CONTENT” AMID HIS BLUE REMEMBERED HILLS, IT HAS A MELANCHOLY ABOUT IT: FOR WE CAN’T GO BACK.
BUT YOU CAN TRY. FOR ME, AS FOR MANY CHILDREN OF FREER DAYS, BICYCLES ARE CENTRAL TO THAT FEELING AND SO WHEN THINGS GET TOO MUCH I DECLARE MYSELF TO BE EIGHT YEARS OLD, SET OUT WITH NO PHONE, AND ROAM AROUND UNTIL I FIND SOME DISTANT VILLAGE SHOP FOR JUICE AND A BISCUIT, TO EAT ON A GRASS VERGE, LORDLY AND FREE. WHEN I CHECKED WITH FRIENDS, THEY HAD PARALLEL STRATEGIES FOR GETTING THE BUZZ BACK.
“I SOMETIMES SIT ON THE STEPS OF THE BANDSTAND WITH A LEAKING CALIPPO AND READ MY GRANDSON’S COMIC,” SAYS ONE. ANOTHER: “YOU CAN’T BEAT ROLLERSKATING ROUND THE PARK, ESPECIALLY IN THE ‘NO SKATING’ BITS.” WRITING IT DOWN STIRS UP MORE MEMORIES BY THE MINUTE. PROBABLY EVEN MORE BECAUSE WE WERE A PRE-SMARTPHONE GENERATION AND HAD THE ADVANTAGE OF BEING SOMETIMES BORED, NOTICING SMALL THINGS. I HOPE THE PRESENT GENERATION WILL REMEMBER THEIR SUMMERS THROUGH A LOT MORE THAN INSTAGRAM, SNAPCHATTING AND ANGRY BIRDS.
I REALLY DO.