The Joys of Tragedy

I talked to my mother yesterday. We were talking about writing, because that's what she does and what she tries to get me to do.
"Did you ever write down that cat story?" She asked.
"What cat story?" I said.
"Oh, Rhon!! The cat story!!! That was the funniest thing you've ever told me in your whole life! Don't you remember???...how you tried taking that cat to the vet and he got out of his box in the car and all the trouble you had trying to drive with this half-crazed cat loose in the car and the children and everything??"
"Hmmm...noo."
"Rhon!"

You'd have thought I had just burned our complete family history.

"Well...maybe I remember ....just faintly." Snatches of it were coming back to me...but I knew even as I gathered the fragments from dusty archives,  there was no way in the world I could ever reconstruct it enough to put it on paper.

 I have a horrible long-term memory. I don't remember things that happened, and  remember things that didn't. It's a curse.
And  I have learned the hard way to be very humble about what my mind tells me about the past. Especially the years when all the natives were at the high maintenance stage. I was too distracted to be committing the incidentals of life to memory. So I never pass my recollection of things on with overmuch confidence. I try to preface memories with "If I recall correctly..."  to cover my bases.
I have noticed though, that Mother finds our lives a lot funnier than I do. Especially the disasters. And she always orders me to write them down.

Like the time I had to stay in bed during a troubled pregnancy, and The Chief took all the rest of the natives camping with his family on Cumberland Island,  forgot the tent poles and tried to suspend the tent by tying it to a live oak tree. 
Or the time the Chief was out of state at a mission's committee meeting, one of the natives got very sick and the only vehicle I had to take her to the doctor was a car with a transmission that was seriously on the blink...it had other problems too, because, if I recall correctly, there was some sort of pliers there for opening the hood...which, if I recall correctly, had to be done at semi-regular intervals. About a mile and a half  down the road I had to pull over to the shoulder. I had come to realize that just because The Chief could drive this thing didn't mean I could. There was no way I was going to get to Augusta. I put my head on the steering wheel and started crying. A cop stopped to see if I needed help. "I'm fine." I said, explained the problem briefly and assured her I could get back home.
I went up the road a little bit to turn around in the driveway of a big new house. It was then I remembered the car would not go into reverse. Period. And there I was. I pondered my options:
 1. Sit there forever.
 Or
2. Make a big fat loop through these people's yard and go home.

I chose the second option.

This is the sort of thing that sends mother into gales of laughter.
She has always been able to see the comedy in every tragedy, even her own.
Not that my life is a tragedy, really. it just has a lot of, say, unexpected parts.
Having a poor memory contributes to this situation. So do children and pets, a persistent propensity toward procrastination, and perhaps more determination than sense.

Ah well, what is life without a touch of woe? Where would we get the stories worth passing on? And what would supply the perspective we need to properly appreciate the uneventful days? Tragedy, after all, is rather useful.

But Mother is right, if you don't write it down, you'll never remember. Or at least, I won't.