Trina Machacek: Reaching back | NevadaAppeal.com
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Trina Machacek: Reaching back

By Trina Machacek

Rotary phones. I still have one for nostalgia. The thing I remember most about using a rotary phone is that when I was a kid our phone number was 329-4800. Those two last zeros took forever to dial.

I knew people who had nearly all ones or twos in their phone numbers. I thought they were so lucky. It took forever to go all the way around to dial a zero. And we had two. AARRGGHH I also remember thinking that my dad worked at the phone company, so why in the world couldn’t he get us an easier number to dial. Oh, the things we remember.

Sit for a while and try to see how far back in your life you can remember. It’s really quite a journey, this thing called life. It’s seems an easy enough thing, just to live. For the most part it is. It’s the bumps along the way that seem to pop up in my memory. Maybe you too.

Those bumps are not all bad though. Bumps and bruises take the guess work out of trying to decide if you really want to put that funny little bright yellow pepper with the cute name, habanero, on your sandwich! Whoa.

On the opposite side of the fence some of those bumps can be wonderful. Like when you bump into an old friend and sit and talk and remember when you first met. Mine was when she saw a bug on my green sweater and I kinda went bananas because I do not like bugs. The thing about that was it was many, many years ago and I just found out a year or so ago that there really was no bug! We still laugh about it. I of course have never worn a green sweater since that day. Not going to be a landing zone for any bug, real or imaginary, again. 

I have friends who have been on both sides of the law during their lives. I love the stories from both sides since I am totally a white bread person. Not too far either way. HAHA I find that we all seem to recall facts and fantasy in equal amounts. Not really embellishing, however there is always a bit of embellishing where memories are involved. But. Yes a “but” from memory.

But embellishing is allowed if any extra words add color and fun to the story, not ego. Ego = Icky. I love to talk about the past. I do however keep this in mind — if I have to tell this again it has to be the same story so tell the truth Trina. If you don’t lie you don’t have to have a good memory. Now there’s a good life lesson to keep in my pocket.

Occasionally I see a list of things someone has come across in their work life. Teachers are wonderful at this. Strange, insightful and just down right funny answers their students gave to a test of some sort are always good for a giggle. So, see even before you are grown and have many years of your own memories under your belt to recall, someone is already using your actions to add to their memories. Well that is quite a merry-go-round to ride to reach back for stories of life.

Sometimes people have a year in their life when everything seemed to happen. I have a great friend who happily says everything happened to her when she was 12. No reason really. Just so happens that she says tons of things happened at 12. Did they or is that just where she pulls from for her wonderful life stories? I don’t know, nor should she change. Her twelfth year sounds like it was a wonderful time.

I wondered if there was a specific year for me. Nope. I can see things from being little, mid-little all the way up until last week. OK, so last week I might have to stop to think about! At some point along the calendar of life all the years begin to fold together. I can remember the year I gained freedom from high school but ask me the year I drove the baler and ran over a bale in the middle of the night and I’m at a loss. Oh, I remember doing it for sure. But the year? Nothing.

Or the year I saw my first baby lamb born. I can tell you where I was, what I saw. The smell of the hay and even the breath of the ewe. The year? I have no idea. I’m just happy I can reach back and have the memory.

Trina lives in Eureka, Nevada. Find her on Facebook, Instagram or at itybytrina@yahoo.com.