Memory
Can you picture Maurice Chevalier singing with Hermione Gingold (in Gigi):
We met at nine. We met at eight. I was on time. No, you were late.
Ah yes, I remember it well.
We dined with friends. We dined alone. A tenor sang. A baritone.
Ah yes, I remember it well.
That carriage ride. You walked me home. You lost a glove. I lost a comb.
Ah yes, I remember it well.
That brilliant sky. We had some rain. Those Russian songs. From sunny Spain.
Ah yes, I remember it well.
There is a myth from ancient Greece that speaks about our focus on memory.
A woman wandered to the waters of the River Styx where Charon (Kay-Ron), the guide, was to take her to the region of the departed spirits. Charon reminded her that she could drink of the waters of Lethe (lee-thee) and thereby forget all the anguish she had experienced in her life. She thoughtfully responded: I shall forget how much I have suffered.
Charon responded: And you will forget how much you have rejoiced.
The woman challenged: I shall forget my failures.
Charon: And also your victories.
In silence, the woman passed by the waters of Lethe and did not drink.
A fellow declares: Everytime my wife and I get into an argument, she becomes historical. Don’t you mean hysterical. No, historical—remembering everything I have ever done wrong.
A few years ago, there was a delightful romantic movie called Fifty First Dates. The story is about a young woman, played by Drew Barrymore, who meets a young man, played by Adam Sandler. There is an attraction between them. Things are going well. The next day, she looks at him as if he is a total stranger. He is. She has no memory. Ultimately, she falls in love with him over and over again, and because it’s a movie, all is well in the end.
Recently I read a real life story, which reminded me of the movie.
A year ago, a 39 year old man named Jeff Ingram, left the home of his fiancée, Penny Hansen, in the state of Washington, and disappeared. Jeff was not the reckless type. He never drank alcohol or took drugs, and according to Penny, “drove like a grandma.” He was, by his own admission, a boring guy. But he had confided to Penny that in 1995 he had disappeared for nine months. When found, he had no clue who he was or what he’d been doing. He never regained his memory from that incident. What he knew about his past—from his mother’s name to his passion for poker—had to be learned from others. It was like taking a history class, but the subject was his own life.
Jeff had a rare form of amnesia which continues to puzzle his doctors. Anyway, on this disappearance a year ago, he wound up in Denver, no idea how he got there. He somehow managed to get to a hospital where he told the desk attendant, “I don’t know who I am.”
After a complete medical and psychiatric checkup, the hospital staff could do nothing further for him. He was transferred to a halfway house. Jeff recalls: “Most of the tenants were mentally ill or had dependencies. They had Alcoholics Anonymous, but there was no Anonymous Anonymous for me to go to.”
So, Jeff walked into a Denver TV studio, told them his story, and they agreed to put him on the air.
The phone rang at Penny’s house. “Jeff’s on TV!”
That afternoon, Jeff and Penny spoke on the telephone.
“Do you remember me?” Penny asked. “No.” “Well, I am Penny, and I am your fiancée. We used to know each other quite well.”
He fell in love with her all over again and they were married on New Year’s Eve. But still they worry.
To help identify him if he gets lost again, Jeff got a tattoo on his right biceps in March: a flaming orange and yellow phoenix rising from its ashes. Clutched in its beak is a banner that reads “Jeff Ingram” followed by his Washington State ID number.
It was that tattoo that led to his quick identification on April 25, when he went missing again. Sadly, Jeff had again lost all his memory.
Penny is looking into new GPS tracking technology that could locate Jeff anywhere in the world if he disappears again. Meanwhile, Jeff says, he’ll work hard on regaining his memory for at least two years. And if it doesn’t come back by then? He doesn’t hesitate: “We’ll continue on and make new memories.”
Thank God for this couple, they are surviving Jeff’s loss of memory. Fortunately, for most of us, we won’t suffer from the same ailment. We are blessed with the opportunity to embrace our past, and there is a lot to be gained by doing so.
You are hopefully well familiar with the words, “My father was a wandering Aramean . . .” recited at the seder table, but also when one, in Ancient Israel, brought his first fruits to the Temple for Shavuot. We are a people who more often than not, wear our history on our sleeves.
As Mufasa (from the grave) said to his son Simba, in The Lion King, “Remember who you are.”
Over the entrance to Yad Vashem—Ascribed to the Ba’al Shem Tov—are the following moving words: Exile comes from forgetting. Memory is the source of redemption.
In the traditional liturgy, following Aleinu each morning, one is supposed to recite the “six remembrances,” referring to six concepts from the Torah that we are commanded to remember each day:
When we look backward in time, the goal is twofold. Our joyous moments must be kept alive, so that we will never forget those blessings. And we must not be afraid to remember the pain, in order that we learn how to face darkness, survive and emerge stronger.
The following story told to me by Rabbi Stephen Parnes:
In 1824, the fifth of eight children was born to a family living on a farm near Albany, New York. This child grew into a hardworking young man who was admitted to the practice of law in 1848. He moved to Wisconsin and began his own practice. Two years later he married and 4 years later a fire wiped out his offices and library. He then began mining for gold in California and joined his brothers in a mercantile business. An astute businessman, he prospered. Eventually he built railroads, became governor of California, and a US Senator. His name was Leland Stanford.
Leland and Jane Stanford had one child, Leland Stanford, Jr. When their son was two weeks shy of his 16th birthday, he died of typhoid fever during a family vacation in Italy. Leland Stanford remained at his son's bedside continuously during his illness. On the morning of his son's death, Stanford slept, but it was a troubled sleep. Upon awakening he told his wife, "The children of California shall be our children." Upon returning to the United States, the Stanfords visited various universities. In 1891 they formally opened Leland Stanford Junior University, later renamed Stanford University.
The Stanfords turned their devastating loss into a rich legacy for generations of young people. In looking beyond their grief, they found a way to perpetuate the memory of their son and the values that governed how they raised him. They thus helped shape the lives of thousands of students, the children of California—and beyond—whom they "adopted."
Sorry, Barbara Streisand, we cannot totally agree with your song. What’s too painful to remember, we will still find a way to do so. It’s the laughter and the tears we will remember. That’s the way we were. That’s the way we are.