Growing Up and Olympics United States

 Memory Posted By: Anthony

The first Olympic Games I ever remember watching were in 1992, in Barcelona. I don’t recall this specifically because it was a time that was special to me or depressing, or interesting at all, but because it brings back one of those few rare memories that’s so finite and insignificant that it may be a key to an entire part of my childhood. You have them too I’m sure. The memory of sitting on a particular park bench on a particular day with your grandfather feeding birds or watching men play chess, or reading a book. It means something, because that’s all you remember from that year. And the 1992 Summer Games in Barcelona are all I remember from that summer. My parents would never allow us to stay up and watch TV. I was just barely eight years old and my brother on the bottom bunk only five. And so, when my father came home from a particularly long day of work with a surprise in his truck, a tiny 14 inch black and white television for our bedroom, we were ecstatic. We could stay up and watch TV!

It wasn’t so simple of course. The antennas were removed and we were left with a fuzzy mess to watch unless my mother came in and took the trouble of pulling out the small monstrosity of a television, itself probably 20 years old, and plugging in the coax antenna and then carefully positioning it against a cracked window for us to get any kind of reception.

The results were often paltry in comparison to the vivid cable TV of the living room, but we were excited none the less. And when it turned out that channel 5, on which the Olympic Games aired every night came in perfectly if you tied the antenna to the cord on the shades and opened the window a little further, we were given a privilege beyond measure.

For those four weeks of August in 1992, my brother and I were allowed to stay up as late as we could (often only until 11 o’clock) watching the Olympic games on our small black and white television. I knew absolutely nothing about sports other than teeball and pee wee football at that time and the wild gesticulations of the gymnasts and flailing speed of Tom Jager in the swim relay were intoxicating to me. I never went on to try my hand at any of these sports. In fact, I would find in the coming years that I was physically incapable of most sports, my hand-eye coordination miscalculated by nature a good five degrees.

But those warm summer nights watching team USA in Spain and getting my first taste of a global society that I would grow up into, something an 8 year old in the rural backdrop of Winlock, Washington has no concept of, are one of the happiest memories I have from my childhood, a singular snapshot of an entire year, compressed into a single evening, a series of evenings. Ever since then, I’ve been enthralled with any iteration of the Olympic Games, however invested I may or may not be at the time. I couldn’t tell you who won anything that year, except for Team USA’s dream team in Basketball. Honestly, I looked up Tom Jager’s name, because all I remember is watching the swimmers. Not a single name sticks out. For me, it’s not necessarily a matter of remembering the essence of sportsmanship or eternity of sport, but remembering a part of my childhood.

My Uncles Wedding U.S.A.

 Memory Posted By: Anthony

At the age of six, it is rare that many memories stand out, that anything from my past stands out clearly and vividly. Ironically, the same medium that often served to glaze over those memories that tend to die from our childhood has resurfaced one or more of those very same long forgotten memories.

It was June of 1990, only three days after my birthday, and my family was packed into the long since forsaken interior of a 1972 van that my dad had kept since his bachelor days before my birth, bouncing up and down over the ruts and tears in the road of a small town somewhere in the vicinity of the middle of nowhere.

It was one of those times in life when things collided, when my own life overlapped with the goings on of the grownups, always running around and worrying about some stressful event or another. My birthday, only three days before and my brother’s birthday, he turning three, that very day, we set off from one of those neon flashing children’s play centers and a birthday party that I ironically do not remember.

I do remember the play center though, as we returned there over the years more than once for their batting cages and battered go kart circuit, a place where I gave and received my first black eye in a fight over the exact nature of having the right of way on a kart track. As for me, I had the right of way.

From what was likely a lively party though, I was placed into the back row of seating in my dad’s van, beside my sugar comatose brother and my grandmother. As one of the few last clear memories of her, it is surprisingly hard to recall if she said more than two or three words to me. Not only was it entirely too hot, us trapped inside of a tin can on wheels, barreling from suburban Seattle to the foothills of the Cascades, but her eldest son was getting married.

The trip to my uncle’s wedding had been planned for weeks. His fiancé had sent the invitations out in February, set the time and place, asked me and my brother to carry the rings, and had multiple conversations with my father about the exact reliability of his tin can. Everything had been set, right down the exact moment we would leave that play center with an hour to adjust for traffic, pit stops, and flat tires on the way.

It was only a 200 mile drive and none of us assumed it would be anything more than a quick affair. We would be staying with my Uncle’s new inlaws in Yakima and from there return the next day. Of course, as I would learn much later in life, things are never as simple as they seem. Stressed as they were, my parents did an admirable job of staying in time with the birthday celebrations, keeping their tone subtle with me and my brother even as we were surely slow and constantly complaining.

But it was not a three or a six year old that would ruin that trip over the hills of Western Washington. Rather, it was an 18 year old, a relic in its own standards and a properly maintained tin can that apparently didn’t care how properly it was maintained. What my father did not take into account was the sharp rise in temperature that occasionally occurs when one crosses the mountain passes and enters the Eastern half of our coastal state. No longer within striking distance of the Pacific Ocean, air tends to wallow and become entirely too hot.

By the time the van’s hood popped open and we lurched to a stop, the only person in that metal beast not sweating was my Grandmother, and to this day, I’m sure I can remember her clenching her teeth. It was some assortment of tubes and cooling related machinery that had decided to disconnect, break in half, and slide out from underneath the van, disappearing into the countryside.

Occasionally, with particularly vivid memories, the kind that I’ve discussed with my family and heard different versions of, I can envision the proceedings in a detached, third person perspective, floating above it all, amused by the drama that’s come before in my life. It’s in that mode that I see me and my brother leaning against the back seat with the door slid fully open, sweat pouring from our bodies, while my grandmother attempts futilely to shove water down my brother’s throat from a gallon jug. My dad is leaning torso deep into the open maw of the van and my mother is trying her hardest not to cry as she watches the clock tick slowly closer to the start of her brother’s wedding.

The ensuing hours, filled with the searing heat of the Eastern Washington sun, the simmering rage of my father, heartbroken shudders of my mother and her mother, and the absolutely bored, blank eyed silence of me and my brother, dragged on and on. The van was towed to the nearest town, sent into a shop, into which my father immediately followed, his sleeves rolled up now that tools and parts were at hand. It took only an hour for him to put that beat back together, but it was too late by then.

Five hours had passed, well beyond our one hour leeway and the wedding had begun without us. My mother’s attempts at calling the church were in vain and without the luxury of cell phones and a instant connect society, there was no way for her to tell him that we had been stuck.

I spent that night sleeping with head against a cold metal rod in the back of the van, my brother leaning against me, and for the first time in my life, me not caring that he was. For a six year old, the meaningless 12 hour trip meant nothing more than discomfort and a wasted day, time I could have spent playing the new Super Mario Bros. or chasing the dog around the yard with a water pistol. It wasn’t for another half a decade, when my grandmother passed away that I realized the reason I didn’t see my uncle anymore, why he and my mother had stopped talking so suddenly. The naivete of childhood clouds certain memories longer than others, but it’s always a thunder bolt when the fog finally clears and things make sense.

Growing Up In The Early 90's U.S.A.

 i grew up in the early '90s i remember the original nintendo! i remember going out side for P.E. in school, the light up shoes! tom and jerry (when they didn't talk) slap bracelets!

Posted By jessi1988

A very small cog in a very big wheel

 Today I have now been sat at this desk in this office for exactly 10 years, I remember the day I started full of hope and ambition , 22 years old fresh out of College and keen . When I started we were still running Windows 3.11 and at least two times a day the screen would go blue.

The other thing I remember as I look back was using a key to lock my old car it had central locking but no key fob and I didn't have a mobile phone or internet at work.

Looking back so many things seemed to have happened that year the first cloning of a sheep, Diana was killed in a car accident and The Titanic movie came out and I started on my "career"?.

During the 10 years when I first think about it nothing else seems to have happened but then I remember I am now married and have a young son and almost forgot a house and a mortgage so maybe I have not just been sitting here for 10 years it just seems like it when I watch the clock all day

Memory Posted By: Anon

Nelson Mandela visiting detroit in 1993 U.S.A.

 For those of us living in the United States of America, we take freedom for granted. Freedoms people around the world have never thought possible. However, for a select few in the year of 1993, a taste of a freedom of a struggle that we would never light to bear came to our soil. A man of strength and virtue came to enlighten us to how wonderful our lives were and how long suffering our neighbors plight had become. I speak of Nelson Mandela, a renowned South African leader whose’ endeavors sparked hatred and triumph among millions.

For a city that claimed to overcome its struggles as Detroit had done, Mandela’s presence was enough to silence those who thought themselves equal to the struggles of this man. To come to terms with the fact that what happened during the riots of Detroit is what can happen within just one hours time in this man’s homeland is enough to humble the mightiest of men. It was, even if you were miles away, a serene place to be. The air was stiff and yet at the same time, vibrant and joyful. Mandela came to this nation with one thing in mind, to spread his voice of intolerance for all oppression and deprivation. He had been quoted many a time saying “I detest racism, because I regard it as a barbaric thing, whether it comes from a black man or a white man.” Understanding that statement is a far different animal than applying that statement, for Mandela just does not offer to us an opinion; it is a directive.

Detroit was a stop on the map for this powerful and energetic man because of the music that inspired him throughout his 27 year imprisonment in South Africa. He grew great strength he said from the late Marvin Gaye. He stated in his speech that he recalled the words from the song “What’s Goin’ On”. “It says “. He said… ”Brother, Brother, there’s far too many of you dying. Mother, Mother, mother, there’s far too many of you crying.” He stated that they represented the condition of South Africa. Detroit became a place of movement and mission for one glorious and shining moment that afternoon. People put down their differences and came together to celebrate a man that celebrated his struggles rather than dwell in them.

Posted By Joeymichelle

Mother in Law and Wedding United States

 My wedding memory and the mother in law, We were married in Vegas with about 25 friends and family flying in from all over in November 1999.

All was fine except my mother in law who not only turned up late and held up the wedding for 30 minutes , but when we had the photographs done ( Which we were paying for ) informed the photographer that he should concentrate on her and her family without me or my family in the photographs and they and the photographer dissapeared to take all the photos.

I did not even realise what had happened untill the photographer turned up to tell me he was finished and I realised he had taken hardly any photographs of me and my husband.

When I talked to my then husband about his mother he informed me it was all ok and to stop being childish.

We booked a reception in the local hotel and all went out dancing and drinking after the wedding, but I was still mad as hell so just got plastered.

It may not come as a suprise to find we were divorced within 3 years as on that day I realised what a Pri?? he was.

Posted By Name Withheld

Music From The 90's United States

 The 1990s music wow. some of the best was here. we got our tupac....dead eminem....retiring insane clown posse....wow lol and more. man we need more of these people. i remember going to concerts in the 90's not all of them cuz id get drunk. man i wish id remmeber those good times.

Posted By 90s Music Man