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Its almost startling to think about how often I forget about this particular stop sign. Usually I catch myself just in the nick of time, slamming on the brakes and lurching to a stop. But every so often, when my mind is on the day ahead, or Im just flat-out daydreaming, I find that this stop sign comes to my attention only when I am halfway through the intersection.

This is not a universal problem for me. Id be hard-pressed to think of any other time I missed a stop sign. Ever. Im an attentive driver. I may have a slight case of lead foot, but I am cautious and aware of my surroundings.

The problem lies in this particular stop sign. You see, I grew up in this neighborhood. The streets where I drive today are the very streets on which I learned to drive a car in the first place.

Where I discovered the art of quickly judging the distance between myself and the front bumper of my 79 Chevy Impala (about half a football field length, if I remember correctly).

Where I misjudged many, many times how long it would take to stop a car that was roughly the size and weight of a barge.

Where I realized that growing up on a one-way street and watching cars drive down it in one direction for over a decade did not guarantee I would remember this same fact once behind the wheel.

Where a certain stop sign was not yet in existence, and I drove down the street with nary a tap on the brake. Which, of course, might have led to the addition of the stop sign. Regardless, the stop sign wasnt a part of my childhood experiences, whereas the road itself is. Including, I might add, the stop sign farther down the road, which was already in place during my childhood, and which I have never once ran.

This doesnt end at traffic signs. Unconscious thoughts and habits from my childhood filter their way into my everyday life with regularity. My childhood home had a sink where the hot and cold faucets were on opposite sides of the standard. It was just one single, rogue sink, but it was one I used often, so it wormed its way into my subconscious habits. I was an adult buying my second home before I realized there even was a standard side for the hot and cold. To this day, if a sink isnt labelled in red and blue or H and C, I have to think about it longer than Im comfortable admitting. Sometimes, I still guess wrong.

Because I was an 80s girl, I still use the term arena for any large convention center/stadium complex; still call the middle school years junior high. Both have been incorrect for so long now that I often meet people who have to ask me to clarify what the heck Im talking about. (The DECC was originally called The Arena, for anyone left wondering.)

I am still, to this day, surprised when a package is delivered to my home on a Sunday.

An audio book will always be called a book-on-tape, a stream is a crik, and an ATM, a TYME Machine. That last one has earned me a lot of concerned looks from people who didnt grow up in the Midwest. The most memorable was an elderly East Coast transplant who asked me Are you feeling alright, Dearie? then didnt seem to believe me when I told her it was what we called ATM machines back in the 80s.

Our childhood experiences shape us, for better or for worse. They can create bonds and habits that are not so easily broken, as evidenced by the stop sign I think of as new because it wasnt there 30 years ago. Just give me a few more decades to get used to it, and

Who am I kidding? Ill still occasionally forget about it.

Kathleen Murphy is a freelance writer who lives and works in Duluth. Write to her at kmurphywrites@gmail.com.

See original here:
Kathleen Murphy column: Stopping to think of things that run deep - Duluth News Tribune