“One of the oddest things in life, I think, is the things one remembers.”
― Agatha Christie

About this time of year in 1974 I was laying on my belly in a field somewhere in East Tennessee with machine guns going off all around me. I was in the middle of an ROTC Army Ranger field exercise. My M-14 was stretched out beside me and I was dressed in faded green fatigues. The day was perfect - sunny, mild, clear. I was in the woods and in my element and having the time of my life.

Four inches in front of my face was a perfectly star-shaped lavender purple flower, smaller than the fingernail on my pinkie finger - not quite the shape as the one in the photo - but close. As I listened to gunfire and shouts I remember it occurred to me that I was the only person on the entire planet, in the entire history of the planet that would ever see that one tiny, tiny perfect flower. In all of eternity and the course of humanity, I was the soul - the one soul - outside of God - who would see and appreciate that flower in each delicate, perfect detail. That thought has stayed with me and I think it will be the last I have on earth - that something so wonderful, intricate and beautiful was created and I was the only person ever - to experience it. I thought about that again this morning as I walked my dog through the woods and was surrounded by thousands of the same flowers.

The things we remember, and why we remember them is, as Agatha Christie said, “Odd.”

I remember the first time I heard the sound of rain on a tin roof - at Standing Stone State Park on my first vacation when I was seven.

I remember the first meal I ordered and paid for by myself with money I “made” by collecting it from the change people lost when diving off the diving board in the pool at that same state park that same year. It was a cheeseburger and a coke and it cost me 50 cents - a dime for the coke, 35 cents for the burger and a nickel extra for the cheese.

I remember how soft the fur of my first kitten was and how she died the day after we got her because the vet botched her neutering. I remember the vet was fat, smoked a cigar while he talked to us about the death and didn’t seem that freaking concerned about it - “Happens all the time,” he told my dad. I remember I wished someone would neuter him (whatever that meant) and he would die. To this day all cigar smoking vets are, in my mind, heartless assholes.

I remember how to disassemble, clean and reassemble an M-14, something I haven’t had to do in 30 years and a skill I hope I never have to need again.

I remember how I used to tie my shoes before someone taught me the “right” way.

I remember the sound a metal bar makes on a carnival ride when you’ve latched it properly - memories of a summer spent working at Elitches’ in Denver.

I remember my first kiss.

I remember the sun on my face and how it felt to fall asleep in an old red Adirondack chair in a field of buttercups in my aunt’s back yard.

I remember my first pony ride - and the first time I rode a train.

My list could go on for days. I savor those memories as often as I can because they form the foundation for my stories. If you can’t remember the intimate moments, the simple moments of your life, you can’t tell even the simplest story no matter how clever or gifted a writer you think you are. Why? Because it’s those simple elements that become the iconic moments of our lives. They define us in ways we don’t even recall. It’s when you tap into the iconic, the character forming, the intimate that you tap into story. Knowing why you remember is important, but remembering is the most important of all. It’s a writing exercise so many of us rarely practice. Try it today.

What do you remember?