One of the fun things about visiting with my siblings is that we each have unique memories of our childhood and events that occurred in our lives when we were living together. Of course we have lots of shared memories. There were a lot of things that happened that we all remember and it can be fun to recall those memories and tell those stories. But there are also things that I remember that my sister or brother do not remember and things they remember that I do not. In some ways those unique individual memories are the most fun because when I hear one of those it is as if my story is enhanced. There is more to my story than I remember.

One of those memories that is unique to me is of our grandmother, our father’s mother, cooking breakfast for a group of people. It is possible that one of the reasons I have this memory and my siblings do not is that I probably ate breakfast at our grandmother’s home more often. Our father would occasionally stop by his parent’s home on his way home after flying fire patrol over Yellowstone National Park. The airplane that he used for fire patrol was a Piper Super Cub that had only two seats. I got to go with him more often than my siblings. It may be because I am the oldest son and had a privileged position in the family. It may be because I so loved going with my father that I was eager to get out of bed at 4 or 4:15 in the morning while some of my siblings preferred to sleep in. It may be because he was flying more patrols when I was just the right age to go along. Whatever the reason, I did get to go on those trips more often and I did get to go to grandma’s house for breakfast more often.

The memory is simple. There would be a group of five or more people in the kitchen of their house and grandma would ask each of us how we liked our eggs cooked. Some would say, “Over easy.” Others would say, “Sunny side up.” I would say, “Over hard,” or “Stomped on.” Grandma would then proceed to fry a bunch of eggs, at least two per person, in a very large cast iron frying pan. She’d crack the eggs into the pan that was generously greased, usually with bacon grease, and then put a bit of water into the cover and put it onto the pan, broasting the eggs. They were served with the yoke slightly runny. As far as I could tell every egg that was served was the same as each other egg. All were put onto a platter and passed around the table and each person took what he or she wanted. I remember thinking that grandma’s eggs tasted good. I would sop up the yoke with a piece of toast and enjoy the egg. But I’ve always told the story that she would take orders for all kinds of eggs, but deliver only one kind of egg to the table.

As far as I know, however, I am the only person who remembers that story. And none of the other people who were there for those particular breakfasts are alive these days so I have no one with whom to consult. My siblings don’t remember ever having landed at the Red Lodge airport and walking down the hill to our grandparents’ house. I think that I did it multiple times, though I don’t remember how often for sure.

My siblings have their own memories of adventures, events, or family members that I do not share. I know that memory is a very strange thing. In one study of which I have read it was discovered that memories that were repeated more often were less accurate to an objective record of an event than memories the were not common stories, but simply recalled a single time. The more we tell stories, the more we embellish them with details that might not have been part of the original memory. If that study is correct, and if I am remembering it accurately, the memories that we share when we are together that we have not previously shared are perhaps more likely to reveal elements of our past with more accuracy than the stories that we have told over and over again.

I like the possibility that I am developing a more accurate picture of my past through the process of sharing memories with my siblings. Then again, the new discoveries often become stories that I repeat after hearing them and it is possible that each repetition leads me a bit farther from the objective truth behind the story. And many stories in our shared memory bank are ones for which there is no source of objective truth. The only glimpses we have of particular events and activities are our memories. It seems possible that we have some stories where we don’t have memories of the real event, only memories of the stories we have told.

I think I can remember the Christmas when our brother was born. I would have been 2 1/2, and that is pretty young for a memory that persists into adulthood. And my memories closely match the photographs of that event. My sister, who is a little less than two years older than I likely has more memory of the real event as opposed to my memories of family stories that were told over and over again. But I haven’t learned anything particularly new about that event from her. Her memories have blended with the other stories I have been told about the event and make it seem like I can remember at least part of that time in our lives.

Some philosophers have written that the only time we have is the present. Memory is inaccurate and incomplete. We cannot know the future. All we can really know is the present moment and that moment keeps changing as time passes. In real world experience, however, our pasts are our companions and we gain great meaning from recalling them. I feel as if my past is a wonderful part of my present experience even though I acknowledge that my memories are incomplete and in some cases inaccurate.

We are, each of us, a bit of mystery and I love a good mystery.