Episode 11 - Secrets from My Twilight Zone
Unraveling the Threads of Memory
If this is your first encounter with my story, you may want to start at the beginning here: Secrets from My Twilight Zone.
Human memory is a primitive and fickle thing. Some memories run so deep that they last a lifetime, like my mother's cousin Eileen who remembered the face of her perpetrator after sixty years, identifying him from a high school photograph. However, science has taught us that our memories are far from infallible. We can remember things that never happened, or forget events that were once chiseled into our minds. It's a paradox: our memories can be both our greatest strength and our greatest weakness. So, how can we trust our recollections when they're so prone to error? We cannot rely on memory completely, but when it's strong enough, its accuracy is undeniable. And sometimes, it's the only thing we have. It brings to mind ancient cave paintings and how they may have been used as visual recordings to pass on wisdom to future generations.
There are scientific methods to improve the reliability of our memories. Electronic recordings can instantly refresh our recollections. In criminal investigations, procedures like double-blind lineups, sequential presentations, unbiased instructions, and expert testimony help minimize the risk of false identifications. Traumatic events are particularly memorable because the brain releases stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline, which strengthen the neural connections tied to those memories, making them vivid and emotionally charged. While we may lose specific details over time, the emotions tied to these memories often linger, leaving a lasting impact.
The Record Player
I vaguely recall reading somewhere, likely a remembrance on a DNA website, that John O'Toole's widow received a financial settlement from his tragic elevator accident. However, it was during the Great Depression, and any compensation she received was lost in one of the many bank failures. Perhaps there was some solace from the legal settlement? Myrtle moved on with her life and lived another thirty years, but she never remarried and was eventually buried with her husband. I can only guess what others might have felt. What I can do is respect the science, and the historical records and return to my own experiences of grief and loss.
One of my earliest memories of loss took place sometime in the 1960s. I must have been around seven or eight, or maybe nine when a neighbor gave my mother a box of old vinyl records they no longer wanted. In the 1960s, we owned a small record player, and I played the odd-looking albums to hear what was on them. I remember one record of jubilant German beer hall songs. I liked that one. Among the recordings was a collection of old cowboy songs, and one song in particular caught my attention. While I didn't recall the exact words or tune, I distinctly remember the feelings—melancholy and grief. Back then, I lacked the words to articulate my experience, but that didn't stop my tears. The song spoke about a cowboy mourning his dog, and its emotional impact on me was much stronger than I anticipated. These were big feelings for a little boy. Intrigued by my intense reaction, I played the song repeatedly, lifting the needle back to the same groove each time, to test if the response would persist. It did, and I played it so much that my mother screamed to turn the damned thing off. I suppose I was experimenting with a kind of exposure therapy.
Cowboy songs of that era celebrated the culture of the American West, capturing the imaginations of children and adults alike with their romanticized portrayal of rugged landscapes and heroic figures. As a child, I loved fictional cowboys, drawn to adventure and heroism. However, by the mid-1960s, cultural shifts were underway with the rise of rock 'n roll, the civil rights movement, and other social changes. Consequently, the popularity of cowboy songs and the music culture of rugged individualism in the Wild West was waning, gradually evolving into the broader genre of country-western music.
Looking back, my fascination with cowboy songs was a reflection of the evolving values and aspirations of that time—entertainment that provided an escape and nostalgia for a simpler way of life that resonated around the world. However, the simple culture they represented generally ignored the more complex and problematic aspects of history, particularly the impact on marginalized populations, including indigenous peoples. Playing the game of pretending to be “Cowboys & Indians” was common for many generations of Americans. I grew up at the tail-end of the era of Roy Rogers, the Lone Ranger, and numerous television westerns.
We approach childhood games with a more critical mindset today, promoting inclusivity, diversity, and acceptance. At least I do, as a psychotherapist. Years later, probably in the 1980s while going through old family photos, I stumbled upon a blurry black-and-white square image of a child holding a dog. At that moment, an intense flash of memory connected the old cowboy song and another long-forgotten recollection. Memory can be unpredictable, revealing fragments of the past like drifting debris. It was then that I remembered our family's white and chestnut Springer Spaniel named Duchess, who had died when I was around four or five years old. I had no conscious memory of her death, only vague recollections of my mother mentioning that Duchess had found rat poison near the garbage behind the house. The rediscovery of the photograph helped me piece together the puzzle of my memories, unlocking the partitioned emotional events that had been tucked away in my subconscious.
Suddenly, my earlier heart-wrenching and tearful reaction to the cowboy song in childhood made more sense, as the record had tapped into a primitive response to loss and grief that I couldn't consciously control. The music, coupled with the photograph, opened an inner doorway, linked another dimension, and allowed me to integrate the unconscious loss, buried within me at a visceral level. At the time, I was unaware of the significance of this process, as it unfolded automatically, biologically, and genetically predetermined beyond my will. Unbeknownst to me, Duchess had become a ghost of sorts, a secret that I needed to confront. That moment was one of unconscious exorcism, and I was doing what my mother needed to do for herself —to integrate a loss through the grieving process. On some deeper level, my little boy’s body intuitively knew what I needed to do, what it was designed to do over eons of evolution.
I took to the internet, as I usually do now, to research the old cowboy song, only to cringe at its shallow sentimentality, reminiscent of the old poems and railroad songs Dad used to perform for us as kids. Dad belonged to a wholly different era, born within a year of John O'Toole's birth, (and O’Toole’s father’s death) who had tragically perished in that elevator shaft. From what I could surmise, he was likely a distant cousin to my great-grandmother Suzanne O’Toole Connelly and her brother Frank O’Toole. I couldn’t scientifically find a definitive genetic connection, but we shared an experience of Pittsburgh, and I’m sure that metropolis has shaped our psyches.
As a lifelong fan of The Twilight Zone, I've always been captivated by Rod Serling's ability to explore the depths of the human psyche through eerie and thought-provoking tales. One popular episode is The Hunt, where an old man and his dog, Rip, go off on their usual nighttime adventure, hunting in the forest. But one night, as the moon cast eerie shadows through the trees, something felt different. The old man and Rip weren't just headed into the dense woods; they were stepping into that other realm of fantasy and fiction. We enter the story, as with songs, with the willing suspension of disbelief. In this liminal space, where the lines between reality and imagination blur, stories take on a life of their own, teaching us something about how to live while we still have time on the planet.
Just as the old man and his dog explore the unknown, we too are guided by the bonds of shared experiences and mutual respect. These connections—whether rooted in memory, loss, or the stories we tell—ultimately light our way through the forests of life. In the end, memory, like a well-worn record, may falter and fade, but the emotions it stirs remain, echoing through time like a haunting melody. It is these echoes, these fragments of a song or a story, that help us make sense of our past, giving us what we need to carry on, no matter how unpredictable or imperfect the journey may be.
And so, as I look back on the many threads woven through my life, I find solace in knowing that while memories may falter, and the records incomplete, the essence of our experiences—the love, the loss, the lessons—endure. In that enduring truth, perhaps, lies the real secret from my twilight zone.
Episode 12 - Echoes of the Past
Secrets from My Twilight Zone is a version of my personal story. It is inspired by true events. However, characters, dialogue, and some events have been fictionalized for dramatic purposes. I’d love to hear your thoughts about this episode or the entire series so far. At this point, I can choose to explore other areas of my family history or simply stop for now. Your feedback could help me with that decision.
You reminded me of something. When I was a teen, one of my favorite television shows was "The Donna Reed Show." I wanted to be her, and have a husband like hers. A "man of the family," who made good money and took care of his family while she was free to dress in pearls and heels while making dinner. Sometimes you can find these old shows on various channels and I was delighted to see I could watch this one again. I was appalled at the sexism! I so relate to you growing up with westerns and playing "cowboys and Indians," and not thinking a thing of it. I recently saw a movie (recently made) where the Native Americans would perpetrate horrible violence on innocent white women and children for "no apparent reason." I was rather surprised...I think we can get unbalanced views on just about anything depending how things are presented to us...lazily lapping up film or even books without thinking critically or searching further. Memory is such a curious thing. Growth and insight can color our former memories and change not only what we thought happened but how we feel about what our minds told us happened at the time. I'm in a season where I'm "re-thinking" a decade of experiences based on what I now know to be the facts. It's an odd feeling.