Memory is everything. If an event isn’t remembered, then — for all intents and purposes — it didn’t happen. Maybe back in 121,594ʙᴄ Thorg Jones built a hang glider and became the first person to fly. Maybe back in 74,338ʙᴄ Kraatia Smith first discovered Florida. Maybe last night I had spaghetti for dinner. It’s hard to say. But it doesn’t take much to realize there’s almost no effective difference between “didn’t happen” and “it happened but no one remembers.”

We certainly count on memory for everything. It pretty much drives every aspect of our lives. Everything from language to our careers to the Triple Dent Gum jingle. And it definitely falls into that “don’t know what you got till it’s gone” category. At least until the point where you can’t remember you can’t remember, and then everything is fine again.

Memory is strange. This “everything” aspect that we cherish so dearly is nothing but a giant mass of cells crammed into our head bone. They arrange themselves however they decide is best . . . and pretty much without any cognitive control on our part. It’s a mystery why after decades I can spout of obscure Yes lyrics (“Dawn of light lying between a silence and sold sources chased amid fusions of wonder in moments hardly seen forgotten. Colored in pastures of chance dancing leaves cast spells of challenge. Amused by real in thought we fled from the sea whole”) but why seriously I can’t remember if I had spaghetti last night.

It’s no mystery that the further we go back, though, the fuzzier things get. Fragile and spotty as mine is, I could still tell you far more about 2018 than I could about 2008. And more about 2008 than 1988. The further back we reach, the more memories turn into flashes of images, with sound and color fading like leaves in the autumn. Memories that used to have a billion neurons devoted to storing them now have maybe one hundred million. The other nine hundred million being repurposed to store the Triple Dent Gum jingle.

My earliest memory is pretty much what you see pictured here with this post. It’s a black and white television screen in a darkened room. And it’s on its side for some reason. No. Wait. I’m on my side. I’m on a sofa, lying down and trying to stay awake. I have no idea what time it is but it feels late to my three and a half year old self.

And that’s it. I cannot, in my memory, see any images on the screen. My brain only retains the basic scene: a dark room and this glowing, blueish-tinged light. But I do know for a fact that this was the live broadcast of Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon. Something about the moment was impressed upon me: this is historic. Don’t forget this. Ever.

And I guess I didn’t.

It’s hard to belive that much time has come and gone since. I’m sure back in 1969 that the year 2019 was filled with flying cars and Jetsons-like cities. We would certainly have McDonald’s restaurants on the moon and space planes could take us there in hours. Oh well. At least we got the internet.

So here’s to the fiftieth anniversary of humans first setting foot on another planet.

Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, my second oldest memory comes from the very next day. We had spaghetti for dinner.