The Magic of Mementos and Memories

The nostalgia is strong in this one...

I like to collect mementos. And by mementos, I don’t mean shiny location-themed souvenirs purchased in seaside gift shops. I mean things like ticket stubs, email confirmations, leaflets, wristbands, scribbled-on napkins and all the other crap you’re supposed to throw away once you no longer need it. Instead of going in the bin, these scraps get thrown into a box that lives behind my sofa, with the intention that I’ll come back later and scrapbook them. I have actually finished two scrap books, because I do have some follow-through. I’ve even started a third, but I really need to finish it because it’s been a few years and the memento box is overflowing again.

I should clarify: I don’t keep this stuff because I’m one of those people who has an existential panic if they throw anything away. I LOVE throwing things out. My dad is wary of letting me near his garage because my enthusiasm for clear-outs is notoriously ruthless. Let me anywhere near clutter and I will Marie Kondo the living daylights out of it.

So, why do I keep these grubby little scraps if it’s not because I’m a compulsive hoarder?

I keep them because those grubby little scraps genuinely help me to remember the happy moments of my life. Which is, rather obviously, the point of a memento: to remember (the word ‘memento’ actually comes from the Latin imperative verb for ‘remember!’).

But these little left-over bits I collect aren’t just a record of things I did and places I went. They are, in fact, a kind of magic. They don’t just make my brain go ‘Oh yes, I spent seven days in Rhodes in the Summer of 2012’. They’re more special than that: they hold the power to bring the memory of Rhodes in the Summer of 2012 to life. The 40 degree heat in the shade, the hot desert wind, the dark burning sand, the life-saving taste of peach iced tea, the surreal tranquillity of standing in the warm crystal-clear waters of the Mediterranean sea, whilst little silver fish nibble at my ankles… the taste, texture and emotional impact of the entire experience. All of it comes flooding back from the pages of that particular scrapbook.

For some (I’m sure very scientific and not at all magical) reason, these physical tokens seem to hold the power to make our memories much more tangible and potent. In fact, the more sensory they are, the better, I reckon. With modern technology we don’t have to rely on tatty bits of paper or shiny things mass-produced for the tourism market to spark our memories; we can actually record moments in time to create mementos with moving images and audio.

I was reminded of this recently when my parents had some old film and audio tapes digitalised. One of those tapes was of my older brothers, when they were three and six years old, recording songs and stories for Dad, with gentle and very patient encouragement from Mum. I wasn’t even born when this recording was made, but it still impacted me in ways I hadn’t expected. The first revelation this audio sprung was how aggressively cockney the younger of the two brothers was at just three-years-old. I had to text him after I’d listened to the whole thing to ask him when he'd be joining the cast of Oliver!. I swear, as he narrated his own version of a Mr Men story, I could feel my pockets being picked.

The second revelation that occurred, as I listened to the Artful Dodger ‘reading’ the story of Mr Small, was that I could picture in my mind’s eye every single illustration from that little book as if I was watching Mr Small falling into the match box right at that moment and not remembering it from decades ago. Interestingly, this is also the first thing my brother shared after he listened to the recording: he could remember all of the pages of that Mr Men book better than he could remember making the recording itself. Somehow, just listening to that little cockney voice, years before I even existed, brought the memory of that book to technicoloured life.

The second audio file was one made for my dad as his Christmas present during a time when our family was rather strapped for cash. In this audio (recorded on a Fisher Price tape recorder—that dates me, doesn’t it?) my sister and I, at six and eight years old respectively, sing and play the recorder for my dad. I have vague memories of it—the main one being that I was in bed with tonsillitis at the time. Unlike our ‘Laandaan’ brothers, my sister and I sound like BBC radio presenters from the 1950s, with accents posher than the royal family. Our family obviously upgraded in social class somewhere between the 1980s and 1990s.

Despite the fact I haven’t sung, or even heard, many of the songs on that tape for a very, very long time, every note and lyric came back to me clear as day the moment I heard my eight-year-old, tonsil-infected, warbling voice. Songs that I had forgotten even existed, and that you couldn’t have prompted me to remember any other way, immediately resurrected themselves in all their melodic glory from the depth of my long-term memory. It was like reuniting with old friends from another life. The nostalgia was very real.

And that’s the thing. The memories triggered by these audio mementos weren’t just the basic recall of words put to a tune or the illustrations in a child’s picture-book. They were memories of experiences and emotions: the excitement of Christmas choir rehearsals, the formality of school assemblies, cosy story-times, friendly sibling rivalry, family, fun, childhood. How it all felt. I think my biggest personal revelation from listening to those audio files was just how good the good times had been and how lucky I am to have parents who invested time and effort into creating and recording such moments: from audio files and photographs, to little trinkets that now hold so much sentimental value.

If anything, as well as helping me to remember, these little mementos help me to be grateful for what has been, for what I have now, and what might be. I mean, there’s nothing like a happy memory to inspire you to go out and make some more.  

So, I stand by my earlier statement: mementos are a kind of magic. And so, in turn, are the memories they conjure. Which means my box of scraps might be one of the most precious things I own.

Do you like to collect mementos too? Have any favourites that bring back happy memories? I’d love to hear about them, so click the button below and share your stories!

PJ