Why We Remember Things

     The phone call came while I was sleeping on the afternoon of New Year's Day.  I was getting some rest before going to work at the expense of watching the Huskers in the Citrus Bowl which proves to any detractors out there that I may have that I in fact DO have my priorities in order.  I reached over, grabbed the phone and looked for the caller ID on the screen.  
     Mom and Dad.
     They never call, I thought.  Only when something's up.  One or the other has fallen, I thought.  With imposing dread, I punched the button and answered.
     "Hello?"
     "Kevin?  Brother Dick has passed away."  
     Wow.
     I don't remember now if Dad said "Uncle Dick" or "Brother Dick."  I think he said "Brother"; it's a term of loving endearment that I've heard him use in the past for his brothers, of which he now is the last surviving one.
     I instinctively knew this would be one of those moments where I'd be able to recall exactly where I was when I heard certain news.  I was at the gas station during the first reports of 9-11; just coming upstairs from my bedroom when I heard the news of Bobby Kennedy's shooting; driving down Fall Creek Road when I heard of Saddam Hussein's capture; and in the hallway listening to Dad on the phone when I heard of the passing of my cousin Carl.  

     I know why hearing tragic and/or big news makes an imprint on one's memory:  Because it's tragic and/or big news.  The mind seems to understand that it's important to recall those moments and kind of takes an internal "photo" to be stored away.  The fact that choosing which breakfast cereal to eat on a certain morning in May of '93 is not considered by the mind to be noteworthy is also understandable.  
     What is fascinating to me is how totally mundane moments from years ago can be recalled with complete clarity.  For example:  I can clearly picture fellow grade school classmate Jerry Stein - who, while being an OK guy, was not exactly my closest friend - crawling up on top of the jungle gym on the west end of the playground during recess.  It was a blustery, late Spring afternoon.  I can still see it.  What is it about that particular completely nondescript moment that sticks with me after all these years?  Why does my mind retain that but has forever eliminated an equally unimportant moment involving a conversation during yesterday's breakfast?  
     I believe it has to do with plain and simple survival at a subconscious level.  Your brain knows better than you do what's important, and acts as a life filter for your existence.  It knows what moments are momentous ones, and stores them away accordingly.  It knows which ones will bring back a fond memory when your body has begun to fade, giving you something to hold onto and to cherish.  Your subconscious knows what to carry and what not to burden you with.  The rest are scattered like mental cremains along the misty pathways of your life, there but not; always present but never again to be accounted for; remaining as invisible building blocks upon which one's psychological house is built.  
     When will the next unforgettable moment come?  No one knows.  Our minds await the next experience, which may await around the next corner or in a future jungle gym of our own creation.  The ability of our mind to create and recall memories is one of life's greatest pleasures, a never-ending gift as long as we keep on taking in bit by bit all that is around us.