Memories of Memories

by Eric

Have I written about my earliest memories already? I can't remember so why not give it a try?

Not that my first memories are very exciting. I'm not one of those people who claim to recollect the obstetrician slapping his bottom. And just as well since an initial memory so traumatic might warp a person's whole view of life. In fact I don't retain much prior to my school days. A few jumbled up snapshots taken with a mental Brownie camera, colors leached away by time, out-of-focus, heads cut off, undated.

There's a picture of a dark room illuminated only by a tiny black and white television screen showing Willie the Worm, a local kid's program. Am I sitting in a high chair looking out over a plate? Surely I must have been older than that. I'd hate to think my first memory in life is Willie the Worm. Talk about warping one's viewpoint!

Instead, maybe it was of my dad coming in through the apartment doorway on a rainy day, wearing his overcoat, presumably just home from teaching. No story, no particular significance. Why did that scene stick in my mind?

Or was it the view from our apartment window, looking down into an alley where a fellow sporting a Mohawk is walking by. I guess the exotic haircut amazed me. The big world outside contained things I had never dreamt of.

Although my preschool memories aren't time stamped these have always struck me as the most ancient.

Trivial events but ones I judge authentic because of their triviality. I am not likely recalling a story someone told me, or remembering looking at a photograph in a family album as might be the case with a birthday party or a special toy. I'm certain I never ran across a picture of Willie the Worm until I looked him up on the Internet a few years ago. For decades, I wasn't even sure that Willie had existed or was just a figment of my imagination.

Should I include the terrifying memory of the open stairs leading down from the second floor porch at the back of my parents' apartment? Between the gaps, which appeared large enough to allow for the passage of a small child, you could see all the way to the concrete below. However, I recall having nightmares about falling from those stairs and it might be the more vivid dreams I remember rather than the stairs themselves.

How do you separate memories of dreams from real memories, unless the dreams are about the endless skull-littered plain behind the closet door or the alien tripods looming up over the familiar houses on the street? I'm pretty sure those aren't memories of reality even though they are real memories.

Then again, from this distance, does it make much difference? Is the residue of reality any different from the residue of dreams?

Musical Malefactors

by Mary

We both love musicals, those lively productions when anything, even the most unlikely occurrence, may happen and frequently does. However, it recently occurred to me these bright entertainments often feature characters who walk on the darker side of the footlights.

Take for example Les Miz's prize pair of villains, the innkeeping Thenardiers. Master of the House Monsieur T gloats how he cheats, overcharges, and robs his guests, not to mention watering their wine, admitting the beef on the menu is minced organs not sourced from cows and hinting the sausages will not bear close scrutiny. Well, wayside hostelries may not always be of the best but the couple's villainy is further revealed in their brutal treatment of the little girl Cosette, whose now dying mother had been paying them for her keep. Jean Valjean, former prisoner still on the run and now a town mayor -- as I said, anything may happen in a musical -- promises her he will raise Cosette as his own. When he visits the inn to rescue her the Thenardiers pretend they treated her kindly and express doubts about his intentions towards her. But even so, the couple sell Cosette to him.

Then there's Fleet Street barber Sweeney Todd and his companion in crime Mrs Lovett, who openly admits the meat pies she sells are the worst in London. Nobody seems to notice Sweeney's customers are never seen again after visiting his shop for a shave. This is not surprising, since they've been transformed into the main ingredient for Mrs Lovett's new and improved pies. Her creations become extremely popular and as a result her beastly business booms. She tells Sweeney when enough ill-gotten gains have been saved she'd like them to retire somewhere By The Sea and live in a house where they'd provide suitable accommodations for occasional paying guests, who'd be murdered by Sweeney. I wonder if it occurred to Mrs Lovett that running a B&B would be even more lucrative when breakfast is never needed, although no doubt part of the profits would be lost due to necessary laundry bills.

Oklahoma is on the eve of statehood and farm girl Laurey Williams is loved by two men: hired hand Jud Fry and cowboy Curly McLain. Jud attempts to murder his rival by persuading him to look through a Little Wonder. This intriguing gadget is, so far as I can deduce, some sort of picture viewer. It's not so innocent as it seems and Jud knows this particular artifact conceals a blade that can be triggered as someone looks into it. But is Curly any better for trying to persuade Jud to commit suicide, telling him when Pore Jud Is Daid others will think better of him. Fired, Jud returns to gatecrash Laurey and Curly's wedding, fights with Curly, and dies by falling on his own knife. Fortunately Curly is found not guilty after an informal trial held on the spot. Certainly nuptials to remember!

In this weary and battered world many musicals see justice meted out to those guilty of malice manifested by malevolent machinations. Most of the time at least.