150 Memory Prompts and Sensory Cues for Revisiting Your Past

"What is your happiest childhood memory?" is not a prompt. It is a topic. It asks you to survey a decade, rank it, and hand back the summary — and what comes back is a summary: we were happy, mostly; there was a garden. You can answer it without remembering anything at all.

"What did the stairwell of your first building smell like on a wet day?" is a prompt. It does not ask you to assess anything. It hands you one narrow slot and waits.

The prompts below are all the second kind. There are 150 of them, grouped by era and, inside each era, by the sense the prompt arrives through. Take one. If it lands on nothing, take another. Nothing on this page is a test, and none of it has to be finished.

Why the narrow one works and the wide one does not

Endel Tulving and Donald Thomson put the principle in one line in 1973: retrieval works to the extent that the cue overlaps with what was actually encoded (Psychological Review, 80, 352–373). Their material was word lists, not childhoods, and the autobiographical extension is later work by other people — but the shape holds. A cue that overlaps with nothing in particular reaches nothing in particular.

Martin Conway and Christopher Pleydell-Pearce give the reason the narrow version bites (Psychological Review, 2000, 107, 261–288). Autobiographical memory is organised in layers: broad lifetime periods at the top ("when we lived on that street"), general repeated events below them ("walking to school"), and event-specific detail at the bottom — the sensory-perceptual material, the actual Tuesday. A wide prompt lands on the top layer, and the top layer is where your summary of your life is kept. The specific one goes straight to the floor.

That is the whole operating instruction, and I am not going to build the case any further here. What matters is what you do with it: always aim at the narrowest thing you can name. Not the era — one doorway in it.

A sense used as a probe, not as a paintbrush

Prompt lists that use the senses almost always use them for description: you already have the memory, now render it — what did you see, hear, smell, feel. The sense comes after the memory, as a way of writing it up.

Here the sense goes in first, as the probe, before there is anything to describe. A smell, a noise, the weight of a door handle — offered on their own, with no story attached, to find out whether anything is attached to them. That inversion is why this list is grouped the way it is, and it is the only structural claim it makes.

Odour has a particular reputation in this role, and some of it survives inspection: Willander and Larsson found that memories cued by odours came from earlier in life on average than the same people's memories cued by words or pictures, and were more often experienced as a return to the moment rather than a thought about it (Psychonomic Bulletin & Review, 2006, 13, 240–244). One sentence is all that belongs here; the literature is taken apart properly in The Proust Effect.

A prompt is specific enough when you could answer it wrongly. "Was your childhood happy?" cannot be answered wrongly. "Which cupboard had a smell of its own?" can.

How to use the 150

Four things worth knowing before you start, and then the list.

One at a time, and not in order. Reading 150 prompts in a row is a way of reading; it is not a way of remembering. Scan until one snags, then stop scanning.

Answer the prompt, not the topic. If the prompt asks what the hallway smelled like, the answer is a smell, not a paragraph about the house.

Several of these assume a thing existed — a stuck drawer, a refused food, a loud neighbour. If it did not exist in your life, the prompt simply does not apply to you. Move to the next one. A prompt is an offer, not a claim about what must be there.

Most of them will land on nothing. That is the ordinary behaviour of a cue, not a report on you. There is a section at the end about exactly what to do about it, and it is the section I would read first.

The childhood home

Rooms are better than events. An event arrives pre-edited — you have told it before, and the telling is what you get. A room just sits there and lets you stand in it.

Smell

1. What did the stairwell, hallway, or porch of that home smell like on a wet day?
2. Which cupboard or drawer had a smell of its own, and what was kept inside it?
3. What did the kitchen smell like in the hour before dinner, before anything reached the table?
4. Which cleaning product was used in that house, and which room did you smell it in first?
5. What did the coat hanging nearest the door smell like when it came in from the cold?
6. What did the bedding smell like on the day it was changed?
7. Which room in that home smelled unlike every other room, and what was in it?

Sound

8. What noise did the front door make? Could you tell who had come in from the way it shut?
9. What did the floor do when someone walked to the bathroom at night?
10. What was the first sound of a weekday morning in that house, before anyone spoke?
11. Which appliance was loud, and what did the room sound like in the second after it stopped?
12. What could you hear from your bed with the door closed — a tap, a television, a conversation you could not make out?
13. What did the street outside sound like at nine in the evening?
14. Which stair, hinge, floorboard, or window in that house made a noise everyone knew?

Food and taste

15. What was served on an ordinary Tuesday — not a holiday, not a birthday?
16. Which dish was made differently in your home than everywhere else, and how?
17. What did you eat standing up in the kitchen, between meals?
18. What was in the fridge door — the bottles and jars that were always there?
19. Which cup or glass was yours, and what did you drink from it?
20. Which food did you refuse, and what was done about the plate?
21. What was eaten at breakfast on a school day, and who else was at the table?

Objects and texture

22. Which thing in that home did not work properly, and what did you have to do to make it work?
23. What was the texture of the sofa or chair you sat on most, under your hand?
24. What was in the drawer nobody organised, and what did you take out of it?
25. Which object were you not supposed to touch, and where did it stand?
26. What did the front door handle feel like — its weight, its temperature, the way it turned?
27. Which item of your own clothing do you remember by its feel rather than its look?
28. What was on the wall above where you slept?

Weather and light

29. Which window got the sun, and at what time of day?
30. What did the house sound like in heavy rain, and where did the water collect?
31. Where in that home was it cold, and what did people do about it?
32. What did the first hot day of the year change about how the house was used?
33. What was the last thing you could still see in your room after the light was switched off?
34. Where did you sit when the weather kept you indoors, and what was within reach of that spot?
35. What time did it get dark in winter, and what happened in the house at that hour?

School years

School is the most reliable index most people own: every year comes with a room, a route, a teacher and a fixed length. Use the year as the address, then aim inside it.

Sound

36. What announced the end of a lesson, and what did the room do in the second afterwards?
37. What did the corridor sound like between classes, heard from inside a classroom?
38. What did the hall or gym sound like when it was empty?
39. Which teacher could you identify by their walk or their voice before you saw them?
40. What noise did your chair, your desk, or your locker make?
41. What did the playground sound like from the furthest point you were allowed to stand?

Smell

42. What did the corridor smell like in the first week of the school year?
43. What did the changing room or the sports hall smell like?
44. What did the inside of your school bag smell like at the end of a term?
45. Which subject had a smell of its own — the paint, the glue, the gas taps, the photocopier?
46. What did a wet coat drying on a radiator smell like in that building?
47. What did your pencil case smell like when you opened it?

Food

48. What was on the tray at school lunch, and which part of it did you eat first?
49. What did you buy on the way to or from school with your own coins?
50. What was in your lunchbox that never got eaten?
51. What was traded at your table, and what was it worth?
52. What did the water taste like at school — the fountain, the tap, the jug?
53. Where did you sit to eat, and who sat where in relation to you?

Objects

54. What was written or scratched into the desk you used most?
55. What did you carry in your pockets to school?
56. What did the cover of your exercise book look like, and what had you drawn on it?
57. Which pen or pencil did you insist on using, and where did you get it?
58. What did your uniform, or the clothes you wore instead of one, feel like on a hot day?
59. What was in your desk or locker that had nothing to do with school?

Weather and the route

60. What was the first landmark on your route to school, and what did you pass immediately after it?
61. What did you do differently on that route when it rained?
62. Where did you wait — for a bus, a bell, a friend — and what could you see from that spot?
63. Which part of the journey was the coldest?
64. What did the light look like on the way home in December?
65. What did you do in the ten minutes between arriving at school and the first lesson?

First jobs, first money

Any paid work counts — a summer, a weekend, a till, a round. The first one is unusually well cued because almost everything in it was unfamiliar, and unfamiliar things are attended to.

Sound

66. What was the first sound of a shift — a shutter, a machine, a till, a phone?
67. What did the back room sound like when the door closed behind you?
68. Which colleague's voice could you identify from another room?
69. What music played where you worked, and who chose it?
70. What sound told you the shift was over?

Smell

71. What did the place smell like at the start of a shift, before anyone else arrived?
72. What did your hands smell like at the end of one?
73. What did the uniform, apron, or work clothes smell like?
74. What did the stockroom, cellar, or cupboard smell like?
75. What could you smell on the way in that told you the place was already open?

Food

76. What did you eat on your first break, and where did you sit to eat it?
77. What did the coffee or tea taste like there, and who made it?
78. What did you buy with the first money you earned?
79. What food was free, discounted, or taken home from that job?
80. Where did you eat when the weather was good?

Objects

81. What were you handed on the first day — keys, a badge, an apron, a code?
82. What did the till, machine, or system look like, and which part of it gave you trouble?
83. What did you keep in your locker, your bag, or your pocket at work?
84. What did the floor of that place look like at the end of a day?
85. Which task did you do so often that your hands did it without you?

Weather and the way in

86. How did you get there, and what did you do on the way?
87. What did the walk from the bus, train, or car park to the door look like in the dark?
88. What was that workplace like on the hottest day of the summer?
89. What did you wear over the uniform when it was cold, and where did you leave it?
90. What did the street outside look like when you came out after closing?

Places you have lived since

The first address of your own is dense with cues for the same reason the first job is: you had never done any of it before, and none of it had become invisible yet.

Smell

91. What did the entrance of your first flat or shared house smell like?
92. What did the kitchen smell like the morning after everyone had cooked separately?
93. Whose cooking could you smell through a wall or a floor, and at what hour?
94. What did the first bathroom that was yours alone smell like — the tiles, the damp, the soap you chose?
95. What did the landing or corridor outside your door smell like?
96. What did the nearest shop smell like when you walked into it?
97. What did clothes smell like when they dried indoors there?

Sound

98. What did that building sound like at three in the morning?
99. What did you hear through the wall, and what did you decide it was?
100. What noise did the heating, the pipes, or the boiler make?
101. What did the street below the window sound like on a Friday night?
102. Which neighbour could you recognise by their footsteps or their door?
103. What woke you there — a bin lorry, a bird, a delivery, a tram, an alarm through a wall?
104. What did the place sound like when you were the only one in it?

Food

105. What did you cook in that kitchen when you were cooking only for yourself?
106. What did you assemble to eat when there was nothing in?
107. What did you order most often to that address?
108. Which mug, plate, or pan did you take with you when you moved out?
109. What was in that fridge that belonged to someone else?
110. Where did you buy food nearby, and what did you buy once and never buy again?
111. What did you drink at that table, and who was sitting at it?

Objects

112. What was the first thing you put on the wall of a place that was yours?
113. What furniture came with it, and what was wrong with that furniture?
114. What did the key look like, and how did you carry it?
115. What was the view from the window you looked out of most, and what was directly below it?
116. What did you own then that you would not choose now?
117. Which object has moved with you from address to address without your ever deciding it should?
118. What was kept on the surface next to where you slept?

Weather and light

119. Which room there was warm, and which one was not?
120. What did that place look like in the late-afternoon light in autumn?
121. What did you do there when it rained all weekend?
122. Where did you go outside when the weather turned — a step, a bench, a balcony, a park?
123. What did the first cold morning of the year feel like in that building?
124. What did the street look like from that window in snow, or in a storm?
125. How far into the room did the sun reach in summer, and how long did it stay?

Twenty-five to put to a parent

Same rule, pointed at someone else: ask for the narrow thing. "What was your childhood like?" produces the family summary, which they have given before and which you have already heard. "What was the floor of your bedroom made of?" produces a room.

One distinction to hold on to while you listen, and it costs nothing: what a parent tells you is their account. It is evidence about the world and it is an excellent cue for you — but it is not your recollection, and it does not become your recollection by being repeated at the table. Keep the two in separate columns from the start; sorting them later is much harder than it sounds.

126. What was the floor of the room you slept in as a child made of?
127. What did the kitchen of your first home smell like in the morning?
128. What did you eat on an ordinary weekday when you were ten?
129. What was the first thing you bought with money you had earned yourself?
130. What did your route to school look like — what did you pass, and in what order?
131. Which teacher could you hear coming down the corridor?
132. What was the loudest thing in the house you grew up in?
133. What did you wear on your feet in winter, and how did it fit?
134. Which shop did you go into most often, and what did you buy there?
135. What was on the radio or the television in that house, and who decided?
136. What did you do in the hour between school ending and dinner?
137. What did your first workplace smell like?
138. Who taught you to do something with your hands, and what was the first thing you made?
139. What did the light in your bedroom look like in the evening?
140. Which song did you hear so often one year that you stopped noticing it?
141. What was the first thing you cooked for yourself, and how did it turn out?
142. What did the journey to a relative's house look like, and what did you do on the way?
143. Which room in your grandparents' house were you allowed into, and what was in it?
144. What did you carry in your pockets when you were twelve?
145. What did your street sound like on a summer evening?
146. What was the first job you were paid for, and what did the first day consist of?
147. Which food did you refuse as a child, and what was done about it?
148. What did the inside of the car you rode in most often smell like?
149. What did you and your friends do when it rained?
150. What did you buy the first time you had a whole day to yourself in a city?

When a prompt lands on nothing

This is the part the other lists do not have, and it is the part you will need first. A prompt that returns nothing is not a signal about you. It is a cue that did not match the way anything was encoded, which is the ordinary outcome of most cues, and it has exactly three legitimate next moves.

Aim narrower. Nearly every prompt that returns nothing was still too wide for the person reading it. "The house" is too wide. "The kitchen" is nearly narrow enough. "The drawer in the kitchen that stuck" is a prompt. Take whatever you were aiming at and name one thin thing inside it — one doorway, one hour, one object — and aim at that instead.

Change the channel. The senses approach a period from different directions. If the room gives you nothing, try the sound the door made. If sound gives you nothing, try the route, or the weather, or what was on the table. You are not pushing harder at the same door; you are walking round the building.

Or stop. Stopping is a complete answer, not a pause before trying again. You can put a prompt down and leave it down, and nothing whatsoever follows from having done so.

What is not on that list: asking a relative to confirm that the event happened, and then going back to it again and again until something arrives. That is not a memory technique, and it is close enough to the procedure in the Loftus and Pickrell study to be worth naming: an event vouched for by a trusted family member, revisited across sittings, is exactly the condition under which people begin to report events that never happened. Family accounts are excellent cues and they are terrible verification. Use them as the first thing and never as the last.

And nothing above should be read as a claim that a blank means something is hiding behind it. A cue that does not match is a cue that does not match. There is no ledger here, and nothing to finish.