Memories

Eliza started tennis lessons yesterday at the same place I used to take her sisters when they were younger. She was a toddler then and we would spend the time digging in the dirt outside the court while the older two learned how to hit a backhand. I used to love that hour. Something about being outdoors and hearing the sound of tennis balls bouncing around the court made me feel like I was back in South Africa. 

It conjured up memories of Sunday afternoons on my grandparents’ farm where my cousins and I would run around the tennis court while our parents played doubles. My grandmother would have a table set up under the trees for tea where she and my grandfather would sit to watch the tennis and be ready to smack our hands if we tried to steal the cake. After the round robin winners were crowned, the gin and tonics would come out, and it would be our turn to mess around on the court until the sun went down on another week.

On other days I would be reminded of my own tennis lessons with my neighbors up the street. We had an Afrikaans-speaking instructor who always sounded like she was angry; yelling at us to take the “mokerhou” at the net. In her defense, my kids now tell me that to their American ears I sound angry when I speak Afrikaans, so perhaps that was all that was. Jammer tannie.

Then there were the memories of my high school years where we’d spend our winter breaks watching Wimbledon on TV. It was an obsessive pastime that would only be interrupted by playing tennis ourselves. The tennis court became the place where friends would meet, secret crushes were formed, and the best of us would imagine ourselves on the international circuit.

One memory seemed to connect to the next.

As I sat at the court watching Eliza, one memory seemed to connect to the next. Before I knew it the hour was up and it was time to go home for dinner. My silent reverie had transported me back in time and left me with a veritable smile on my dial, as my dad used to say. A question formed in my head: what if memories are the very things that help us move through hard times?

They remind us of the fullness of life we’ve already lived, the obstacles we have thus far overcome, and the support structures we have in place should we need them. The realization that the very nostalgia that made me homesick last week could now be a source of strength to draw from was the shift in perspective I needed. What a gift to be able to see where we’ve come from, who walked with us, the joys and challenges we’ve experienced, and the growth we’ve undergone.

“The business of life is the acquisition of memories. In the end that’s all there is.”

-Carson of Downton Abbey