It’s a great feeling when someone I know says he remembers the people I wrote about in a previous column.
“You know this ‘Sopandas’ guy you mentioned? Well, he was my neighbor,†a childhood friend told me recently.
Indeed it is great for my column to have jogged a memory or two. But along with that is the inevitable question (often from a sibling, “Are you sure we grew up in the same householdâ€). Somehow I believe I’m blessed with a keen memory of childhood events, thus my pre-occupation with things I did or were done to me in the ‘40s and ‘50s.
And there’s often a difference of opinion. I’m sure this has happened in many families, where one family member retells a humorous incident of yesteryear. But in doing so, she’s changed the names of the characters: Instead of Mom it was Dad; instead of Immaculate Conception School it was Vegas High or Town High.
Short of DNA evidence and film-type documentation, or the sworn testimony of six nuns, it’s hard to prove very much. Who’s to say my recollection of things isn’t as great as yours? Continue reading