a particular-but-nondescript day ...riding bike with friends... sitting in the classroom, looking out the window on the first snow of the year... playing baseball with neighborhood kids... a never-ending game of Monopoly with family... swimming in a lake... picnics;
a special event ...first ballgame... holiday... riding a roller coaster despite being terrified... losing the first tooth;
a smell ...baking... the ocean... coffee brewing... Mimeographs... grandfather's pipe tobacco;
a sound ...favorite song... the sound a spoon makes when stirring coffee... the bell at the end of the school day (who doesn't remember that sound???!!!)... waves on the beach... a playing card rat-tat-tatting in the spokes of your bike... loud family gatherings...
a meal ...when asked about this, the Wife said, "Raw beef on rye bread with raw onions.
One of my favorite memories? I'm so glad you asked. This will probably surprise my mother.
It's a sound. A very specific, vivid sound.
It's Squawking Blue Jays, as heard while laying in bed during our annual trip to the cottage.
If you've ever heard a Blue Jay, you know what I mean. The Blue Jay's call is loud, distinct and very much a squawk. They are noisy. (They're also the assholes of birds, but that's a different story.) I love when a Blue Jay lands on the deck to get a drink. They are beautiful, angular, powerful. They have a very distinct flight pattern, yelling as they fly.
So, here's my childhood memory, followed by how I decided to memorialize it.
I'm in a cottage, on a small lake. We go there every year, so it's very familiar. I'm in high school. Because it's not a very big cottage, I had to share the bed with my sister. It was small and squeaky bed, with springs loud enough to wake the neighbors. There's a very clear boundary of "don't touch me" space between us. Upon waking, I can hear the ripple of the waves on the beach. I can hear someone making tea in the kitchen. I can hear the sound of a lone motor boat, very much in the distance... but those aren't the sounds that truly "catch" my ears.
It's the sound of squawking Blue Jays.
To this day, I cannot hear a Blue Jay without remembering this place, those times, the setting, the people, the fun.... and, most of all, my grandma.
Side note: Blue Jays also remind me of our beloved Lucy, as her "sign" is a blue bird... so, it's two for one when I hear or see a Blue Jay.
Last summer, while at the same cottage, I paid close attention for the sound of Blue Jays. They did not disappoint. Blue Jays were loud, proud and, most importantly, present.
So, I decided to put this memory into concrete form. Not concrete like stone. Concrete like permanent.
I got a Blue Jay tattoo. Of course I did.
I left the design to the artist. All I told her was that I wanted a Blue Jay. Like the sound of the Blue Jays last summer, the artist did not disappoint.
Most people haven't seen my tattoo as I got it in October and it's been cold ever since. Until I start wearing short sleeves, this loud bird of blue won't get much viewing. Come summer, my Blue Jay will be quite the visible, concrete symbol of childhood, of my maternal family, of the cottage. It's Kentucky Fried Chicken, plastic green army men on the beach, green water, games of "Spoons" on a rolling kitchen table. It's thunder booming on the lake during a storm, sunburn, ugly fish poking their heads out of the water by the pier. It's Ben Franklin, cousins, squeaky bed springs, sunrises. It's Blue Jays in the morning while squished in a bed with my sister.
The wife's take on it? "It's big."
I don't think she was very amused. What can I say? She's not a fan of any tattoos. I suppose it is big. It's not as large as an actual Blue Jay, but it's big enough. I've learned over the years that bigger is better when it comes to tattoos. It's on my upper arm, with a background of oak leaves. The artist must've been channeling my memories, as oak trees were definitely part of the cottage scenery. It's big, but it's got a big memory to carry. The size is fitting.
Best of all? The artist included it on her post for an upcoming tattoo show. My childhood is now part of tattoo history. Immortalized. I'm tickled pink.
The photo doesn't really do justice to the product. I have goose bumps because I was cold, so it kinda doesn't make for the best photo. It's right after she finished tattooing my arm, so the goose bumps are probably pain-related, too. I have to say, this time was painful. I think it's age, not placement.
I love it. I cannot say enough good about it. I can actually see it. I love what it means.
So, here's to your cherished childhood memory, whatever it might be. Whether it's cookies baking in the oven, graduating from kindergarten or eating raw beef on rye bread with raw onions, here's to you.
Here's to my squawking Blue Jay tattoo, a most permanent reminder of happy times. Thanks, Lucy. Thanks, Grandma. Thanks, Hannah the artist.
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