When we pull up these memories, they are there in true color, full sound, and clear vision. Each of us has his or her personal memories, forever burned into the hard drives of our minds. We all have personal events stored in episodic memory as well. “Now comes the reason for my teaching you about episodic memory. You all have some collective memory of that day when terrorists flew two airplanes into the twin towers in New York City.” Some pencils even scratch “episodic memory” on paper. We remember what we were doing, what we were eating, who was with us, where we were, sights, sounds, smells, feelings…they’re all there in our episodic memories.” We can remember these episodes with all five senses. When huge events take place in our lives…events that mean something very important to us, or that are swift and exciting, sometimes too wonderful or too terrible to understand or to survive…at that instant…those events are stored in our minds almost like living, high definition videos. The stream slows and the water surface becomes glassy. Time slows as currents of thought push the humming motor down. “What did you see? What did you hear? What did you feel? What did you smell? Who was there with you? Take a minute and write that down.” The beautiful fish begin to move as one toward the bait. It was a couple of hours before we knew she was okay, but her plane was grounded so she couldn’t go to New York.” I remember I stopped and just stood there like I was frozen. “I was making sure my books were in my backpack, and the news came on over the Morning Show. “I had just eaten…Cheerios…yeah, it was Cheerios!” he says. “So, Jose, can you remember exactly what you were doing when you first found out about the planes hitting the building? Where were you? What were you doing?” Now we’re getting somewhere, I tell myself. Jose blurts out, “My mom was on the way to New York that morning. Mary says, “I was on my way to school, and the bus driver yelled at us all to be quiet because something was going on with World Trade Center.” A couple of her friends nod their heads, eyes looking up and back, into the past. Gills are fanning in and out a little quicker than before.Ī hand shoots up. I can see their trout bodies, speckled with brown dots, turning toward my new presentation. The class is interested in the bait change up. Where were you? What were you doing? Who was with you? What time of day was it? What did you feel?” I scratch out two words: ‘episodic memory.’ Turning to the class, I say quickly, “What do you remember about 9/11? Take a minute and think about 9/11. Quickly changing tactics, I turn and grab a broken piece of chalk…not much, but enough. I can see they are thinking of going into deeper water. The other fish start to turn away from the prompt/bait. Pretty much says it all right there,” chimes in his best friend Tad. ![]() I don’t do nuthin’ but work and stay at home.” “What do you know that you would want to write about? What stories do you have to tell that others would like to hear?” I let the current move the fly a little deeper over the waiting trout.Īnd there I miss the first strike of the day. I see the other trout-children move ever so slightly, turning in the water thick air toward the question-tap. Shimmers of water-light ripple through the pond-room. Bouchard? What if I don’t have anything to write about?” a querulous voice trembles. Patiently I stand by the edge of the stream, my feet just barely touching the water line. Students mark their breathing in second hand sweeps, while I wait for that first hand to rise like a fish, foolishly deciding to catch one last fly for the evening…my bait, tied carefully to invisible nylon leader guaranteed to withstand the assault of five pound monster brown trout. Whoever put a 15 inch clock on the wall above and behind the teacher knew something about sadism. Silence is broken by the sound of the General Electric clock over my head marking the flow of time and water and life. No one moves a pencil no one rises to even tap the bait. ![]() My students, fresh from fields and country roads and long hours alone on the prairies, stare back like ancient trout, converged at this bend in the river. I am standing in front of another writing class From my mouth, the mouth of all English teachers, comes, “Write what you know,” and the carefully tied fly whips itself out onto the surface of the classroom and lies there, waiting for a nibble or a strike.
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