I watched an old episode of one of my favorite British shows — Midsomer Murders — the other night, in which clues to a long-ago family mystery were found in an old woman’s hand-written journals. And it made me wish I had thought to keep a record of my own life as she had.

I’m not rich or famous. I’m not from an old, aristocratic family with deep, dark, fascinating secrets. My journals wouldn’t be filled with daily earthshaking events; neither I nor any of my friends or relatives have ever run for president, or climbed Annapurna, or discovered a new planet. And I’ve already written about my years of travel adventures. But the little everyday stuff — the seemingly mundane, ordinary, even boring details that fill our days unnoticed and unremarked — those little details can trigger the most wonderful memories of all.

Such as . . .

“It finally stopped raining and we were able to play outdoors today.”

The long summer vacations from school, the smell of the wet grass after a soaking rain, the neighborhood kids gathering for a game of kickball, the long-awaited ringing of the bell signaling the approach of the ice cream truck. Just another ordinary summer day? No . . . not ordinary at all. Rather, a day of youthful freedom, and friendship, and ice cream. A wonderful day! A day to remember.

Or . . .

“Bubbe made chicken soup because she says it’s the best medicine for my cold.”

A grandmother who could magically cure anything, even better than my own mother could. Of course, the soup also came with big matzo balls . . . and a scolding for getting soaking wet playing in the snow and not coming inside to dry off soon enough. But somehow, even the scolding told me how much she loved me. And we were loved, and cared for, and taught right from wrong, and about respect. Life was simple . . . and good. And so was the soup.

Or . . .

“Kevin touched my arm in the cafeteria line today. What a thrill! I love him so much, it hurts. I’ll die if he doesn’t ask me to Wendy’s birthday party.”

Kevin? Oh, yeah . . . the tall, geeky boy in sixth grade who had such nice manners and got straight A’s. I wonder what ever happened to him. Lost touch with all those kids when we moved away. What a crush I had on him, though! I’ll bet he’s one of those Silicon Valley gazillionaires now. Damn!

Or . . .

“Went shopping with Melanie today. She’s so lucky, her folks are loaded and she has a credit card and can buy anything she wants. She got a whole new outfit, and I only had enough money for a purse, but it’s the one I’ve been wanting and I love it.”

I remember that purse! It was tan, and real leather, and it smelled so good. I carried it every day through high school, until it finally got put into the Good Will bag. I hope the next owner enjoyed it as much as I did.

Or . . .

“What a crappy day at work today. I wish I’d meet Mr. Right so I could get married, have a couple of kids, and stay home with them.”

Okay, so every memory isn’t a happy one. But one bad day at the office, and I was ready to wish my life away. Glad that wish didn’t come true right away . . . I’d have missed too much fun before settling down.

Or . . .

“Soviet missiles in Cuba? Please, God, no! I’m too young to die!”

Some memories we’d like to be rid of, but somehow they just won’t go away.

Or . . .

“I can’t believe that snow! It must be a foot deep. No work tomorrow, that’s for sure, and maybe longer.”

The sound of noiselessness when it snows, and the freshness of the air, as though all the usual sounds and smells of life are absorbed into the fluffy whiteness. The purity of the endless stretch of untrodden snow, just calling for my footprints to be the first. Bundling up into a big down-filled jacket, scarf, gloves, snow boots and heading down the hill to Georgetown with a few hardy souls, then the solitude of Dumbarton Oaks Park, just me and a few winter birds. Coming home looking like the Abominable Snowman, chilled to the bone and exhilarated; heading straight to the kitchen for a cup of hot chocolate. It doesn’t get any better than this. Except maybe Bubbe’s chicken soup.

Or, simply . . .

“What a great book. So glad of a snow day to have time to read it.”

The luxury of doing nothing.

*. *. *

Just a few samples of the thousands of bits and pieces from the past that may have been forgotten for years, brought back by those little notations that seemed so trivial at the time. The stories of a life lived, as we all must, from day to day, never knowing what will come next, living in . . . what? Anticipation, or trepidation? Excitement, or fear? We each face the future in our own way, according to our individual character and our circumstances. But perhaps, just once in a while, it would do us all good to look back at the events of the past, to see how much we have already experienced, and to realize that we have — through both good and bad times — survived.

Thanks to Midsomer Murders, I’ve now begun a daily personal journal of my own, filling it with trivia. How I wish I’d started sooner.

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
12/7/23