Slice of Life: March 4 -- Paneling, Pictures, and Proving a Point

A couple of months ago, my husband and I were eating dinner with my parents.  This is a fairly normal occurrence since my parents literally live less than 100 yards behind us.  Our dinners are typically filled with laughter, story telling, and joking with my dad about his poor hearing.  On this evening, however, the conversation drifted to discussions about houses -- our current homes, the house my parents are considering purchasing when their house sells, and finally, discussing the first home I lived in as a child.

I have vivid memories of my first childhood home.  Just to make sure my memories were correct, I began rattling off a list of the things I most remembered -- the location and arrangement of the kitchen, the drapes in the dining room, the blue tub in the bathroom, the location of each bedroom, the type of brick on the fireplace in the family room, and finally, the paneling on the wall in the living room.  Up to this point, my mom had affirmed each of my descriptions, but she quickly stopped me when I mentioned the living room paneling.  With a look of confusion, yet utter certainty, she informed me that our living room wall did not have paneling.  With just as much conviction, I emphatically informed her that it did in fact have paneling on the wall.  Just to prove my point, I even described the color and pattern of the living room couch and the clock that hung on the paneled wall. Once again, with resounding confidence, my mom made it clear that I was mistaken.

Continuing to grow in my certainty, I called my dad back into the kitchen and asked him about the paneling on the living room wall.  "What paneling?" he asked.  Becoming frustrated, I once again described the room, including all its contents and the paneling on the wall.  This time, both my parents laughed as they reiterated the fact that the living room did not have paneling.

Most people would have given up at this point.  Most people would have begun to question their memory.  Most people would have let it go, even if they knew they were correct.

I am not most people.

Bound and determined to prove my point, I walked to my parents' home office, opened the closet, and pulled out two boxes of pictures.  When my parents asked what I was doing, I told them that I was searching for a picture to prove I was right.  Once again, my parents laughed, certain that no such picture existed.  Emphatically, I told them it did, and began the process of digging through picture after picture from my childhood.  My dad, certain that I was wrong, even bet me $10 that I would not find a picture, or that I would find a picture that proved his point instead of mine.  After about ten minutes of searching, I let out an exuberant, "Yes!" as I pulled a picture from the box.  In it, was a clear photo of my dad and me sitting on the couch with the clock in the background -- hanging on the paneled wall.  Feeling vindicated, I did a little gloating and reminded my dad to cough up the $10 he owed me since he lost the bet, wishing I would have wagered a little more now that I had the proof I was right.

I don't share this story so I can brag about my impeccable memory (believe me, it's not always quite so sharp).  No, I don't share this story so I can talk about the 1980's decor of my childhood home or so I can bore you with paragraphs about wood paneling.  I share this story because the entire conversation of the evening and my desire to prove my point brought back a flood of memories as my parents and I reminisced about times shared in that home, laughed at the other pictures I found as I dug through the box of photos, and provided my husband a glimpse into my life as a child.  It was a wonderful evening.  Not because I won $10 and proved my point, but because I had the opportunity to step back in time.  For one night, I was transported back to my childhood.

To the time I hid behind the dining room drapes while playing hide and seek.

To evenings spent in front of the fireplace.

To a wonderful place that holds some of my first and most treasured memories.

And, back to where this story began -- at a kitchen table, where family dinners were spent laughing and telling stories.