We’re sidesteppin’ today’s prompt again… because I’m lazy (especially on a day off).
I was born in San Antonio, Texas way back in 1972, but my first clear memories are from when I was in 2nd grade in Boise, Idaho. That’s 7 years of human development that I don’t remember. That seems to be the norm for most people, though. If I try to dig for the furthest clear memory possible, it’s a tie between making chocolate haystack cookies and making candles inside coke glasses (there was even foamy wax to make it look like soda). If I really pressed my mom for more info, I’d probably find out the candle making one happened after the cookies.
I also remember walking to school. According to Google Earth, it’s approximately 0.85 miles from the house we used to live in to the elementary school I went to. In the winter, the long road from the school to the street I had to turn down seemed to freeze over completely. There were long stretches of ice you could run and slide down. I remember walking down that very same road and a mailbox jumped out and clipped me as I was walking past (this time, it wasn’t winter), because there was an earthquake (not an area of the country known for those).
It’s strange how memory works. I remember those things clearly… as if they happened only a few days ago. I can recall the weather, the look of things. Before 2nd grade, I only have glimpses and flashes of memories… to the point where I question if they’re actually memories or something else put there from stories my parents told. I remember getting stung by a bee and running up a few flights of stairs to get my mom to fix it (this was apparently in Germany where my younger brother was born). I also remember the planetarium at the National Air and Space Museum in Washington, DC.
Except for the bee sting, most of my memories seem to be either unique or good ones. Then there are the good ones that are strangely part of a bad memory when I sit there and think about them. I remember playing catch with my brother and dad. We played with footballs, gloves and baseballs, and even frisbees. When my brother asked me about the times we did that, I couldn’t quite remember just how many times we had played catch with dad. Turns out it wasn’t as many as I had originally thought.
I’ve had an idea rolling around in my head for a new story that revolves around memory and the way we actually remember things, but I don’t think I’m accomplished enough to tackle it quite yet. I find it strange that some of my best memories have turned into the things that I feel are the reason behind some of my biggest shortcomings as an adult, and I want to play with that idea. I’m sure the story needs some steeping and time to simmer before I’m able to do justice to it.
What’s the earliest thing you can remember? Is it a good or bad memory? Let me know in the comments.
I’ll see you tomorrow.