Welcome to Scene Stealers, our series of writing prompts designed to flex your creative muscles.
We’re thrilled that so many of you are participating in our series of exercises for creative writers.
In case you’re not familiar with Scene Stealers, here’s how it works:
- We set the scene
- You steal it, make it your own, and,
- Share your creation in the comments section of this post
Of course, it’s perfectly fine if you don’t want to share your work, but we hope you’ll do this exercise for fiction writers anyhow.
We occasionally use Scene Stealer ideas submitted by our reader. If you’d like to submit a Scene Stealer idea, please look at the information at the end of this post—it’s easy to submit an idea.
Now for the ground rules:
- You must use the exact wording we provide—in this case it must appear in the beginning of your story.
- Your story must be 350 words or less.
- Your work must be original and not previously published.
- WTD provides an encouraging and safe environment for writers to grow and learn from each other. We’d love you to comment on other people’s submissions in a friendly and supportive manner.
- We reserve the right to delete any comments or entries we deem inappropriate and those that do not meet the specifications above.
This week’s installment is designed to develop your ability to tell personal stories, which ties in with my recent post on How to Write About Yourself. If you haven’t seen it, you might want to click here.
Scene Stealer #7
My earliest memory is …
Now steal this line and make it your own.
We can’t wait to see what develops.
Want to submit an idea for an upcoming Scene Stealer?
It’s easy. Just send your idea to Cheryl[dot]writetodone[at]gmail[dot]com. Be sure to include your full name, email address and, if you’d like, a link to your blog or website. If your idea is selected, we will share this information with our readers, so they’ll know how to find you.
By Cheryl Craigie, Contributing Editor at Write to Done. Cheryl also blogs at The Manageable Life
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My earliest memory is …
being frightened.
The floor was damp with an odd, unfamiliar smell in the air. Instinctively, I realized I was in an underground room.
In the corner I saw glass containers, lined up, filled with mysterious, floating shapes. In another corner there were … things, jumbled together and indiscernible in the semidarkness. Behind me on a fragile staircase, made of old, dried boards, paint was peeling where it still clung to the boards.
I could barely discern a light glow at the top of the stairs, from under a closed heavy wood door. It was a million miles away for my tiny legs.
I did not remember how I had gotten there. Had I somehow climbed down those stairs on my short little skinny legs, in my exuberance to discover new things? Had I unwittingly trapped myself there, running down the stairs and letting the door fall closed behind me?
I should have listened to my father and mother. They told me to sit quietly, and now I had gotten myself into serious trouble. Would they miss me? Would they find me down there? Or would something else find me first?
Time stretched out. A thousand sounds reached my ears. Heavy, sucking, deep breathing was coming from the far end of the room behind me, opposite the tiny, dirty windows near the ceiling in front of me, which let in a glimmer of light.
I stared up toward that light, wondering if I dared try to reach it, climbing up on the racks of jars of strange objects or clambering over the pile of jumbled shapes in the corner, realizing with despair that I would never reach it, and that behind all the grime covering the glass there were bars!
The breathing behind me became louder. I tried to cry out, to scream, but no sound escaped.
Suddenly a loud noise startled me and I turned, to be swept up in my father’s arms, laughing, carried back into the warm kitchen and into the light, with the sound of the central heating dying down behind us.
I used spell check. I recommend it.
My earliest memory is being tied by my parents into my crib. At thirteen months old, I was a climber of epic proportions. Bookshelves, chairs, closets, tables, boxes. I would eye them up, choose my path and climb. The fact that I had fallen and cracked my skull six months prior did not bother me. Like itsy bitsy spider undeterred by the rain, I would climb, fall and climb again.
Many of my climbing adventures were nocturnal. My crib was like base camp. I would launch myself out, and head off downstairs in the dark, first crawling and then walking. I roamed the house freely as child proofing in the late sixties consisted of keeping booze and cigarettes out of reach.
My parents were desperate. They would wake up, check on me, search for me, and with much finger wagging and pleas, plonk me back to my base camp. I felt happy. They felt desperate. Another baby was on the way and I was a getting older, stronger and more adventurous. They would wring their hands and cry “Dear God, somebody stop her!”
So one Saturday morning, my Father had a cunning plan. He got an old tennis net and rope. Settling me into my cozy crib that night, my Father would then drape the net across the top. I would sit there watching closely as he weaved the rope in and out of the net and in and out of the bars of my crib. He would then reach under and tie an elaborate knot. They would wave goodnight and arms around each other, grinning gleefully, would leave the room. I would wait a few moments, and then with my stubby little fingers would lift the corner of the thin mattress, reach through the base bars and close my hand around the knot. I can still see it now. Grey and thick. All gnarled, like a small brain. But what with all the knots and double knots facing me, my Father was taking no chances. Finally thwarted, I lay down, closed my eyes and dreamt of bunnies.
Love it!
I’m certain I developed claustrophobia because I was put in what was essentially a straight jacket tied to the crib to prevent my nap time adventures. I spent the first several months of life with bars on my legs because of some unknown condition. When they removed the bars all I wanted to do was walk . . .
I was born in the 50′s . . . I wonder how many more of us are out there?
Darris recently posted..Diesel spill off Doran Beach, Bodega Bay
Wow – a straight jacket for babies. Show’s how desperate parents were!! But remember they were the days of no seatbelts in cars.
HA! Right!
Putting your baby in a straight jacket of sorts nowadays would land you in a mental institution for extreme child abuse . . . and rightly so!
My son began walking at 9 months old. He first climbed out of his crib at less than 6 months old . . . three months before he could even walk. I had lowered the crib bottom because I saw him trying to pull himself up. I heard a heart-stopping thud and found him lying on the hardwood floor crying. I imagine he landed on his head. Seeing him lying there made me nauseous with concern. He’s nearly 17 and he’s turned out fine and healthy. He’s had many adventures since that have landed him with broken bones and stitches. He’s one I should have put in a straight jacket ; )
Darris recently posted..Diesel spill off Doran Beach, Bodega Bay
…. knots and double knots facing me….
….and dream t of bunnies.
I found the reason behind DREAM. Why we dream.
Loved it.
My earliest memory is sitting in the grass in a park and getting bit by red ants. I was with my cousin, Susan, who was about 13 years older than me. I was about 3 years old, she was a teenager. I adored her. I thought she was so amazing. She had long brown hair, she played the guitar, she loved art and drew all the time. I thought she was the neatest person ever. I guess she was stuck babysitting me so we went to the park in our little town. We met this guy, it was obvious they liked each other and they were busy talking.
I was one of those kids that was kind of a fidgeter and liked to have attention and be noticed. We sat in the grass. Susan and the ‘guy’ were absorbed in conversation, staring into each other’s eyes. Talking a mile a minute. Susan pulled out her guitar and started strumming. She was into folk music.
I felt a sharp sting on the back of my thigh. It was summertime and I had on a little summer dress. I looked down and saw some ants running around. I moved my butt over and saw this ant hill. I scooted over and then felt another bite on my butt. I started looking around the grass and it seemed like everywhere there were ants and ant hills. I was moving around a lot. Susan, who never raised her voice to me, said “Stop it Diana. We will leave soon. Can’t you just give me a little time here”. I loved her and I knew she was so happy talking to this boy. You could see it in her face. I found the clearest section in the grass I could find. There were still ants and I got a few more bites but all of it is was worth it to see their faces and young love. A romantic at 3 years old.
My earliest memory isn’t a happy one. Or, rather, it’s doesn’t start out well. It just so happens my father was trying to teach me to ride a two-wheeler… and at first I was really excited. At least that’s what I’ve been told. But the only part of it I remember is fall off that two-wheeler. I bloodied my knee and my face and had a huge scab for days.
But after I fell off I ran to dad. I put my little hand in his big one. My helmet dangled from the hand not held in mine. And we walked inside together to clean up my boo boos.
And that’s my earliest memory.
Melissa Breau recently posted..Creating Characters from Scratch
My earliest memory is one of confusion.
It was on a big, open, cemented space in front of my house. I was about 4 years. I stepped in a puddle of water, thrilled to see my mother squatted down to wash herself. Innocently, I bent over to look. To my surprise, I heard a pow pow. She hit me. I began to cry out of shock and confusion. “I did not do anything wrong,” I thought. “And if i did, why didn’t she tell me?” So, I became very angry. I screamed my little heart out and sat down in the puddle shuffling my legs back and forth in rebellion.
I was hoping daddy would come soon enough to find me crying. Little did I know, daddy would not come for hours. My temper tantrum could only last for so long. I was getting tired. My stomach hurt from crying. I did not want to stop without vengeance though. I was too ashamed to just stop. All eyes were on me now, probably saying to themselves, “Daddy is not here to rescue you now.” My 5 brothers and only sister were spectators, who were always jealous of my relationship with our father. I was his favorite and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind. I learned very early on that when daddy was not home, I had to watch my back.
Oh yes, back to vengeance. It didn’t feel right to hit my mother. I was left with the only alternative. My mouth. Or should I say, “My words.”
Finally, I took some shallow breaths. I looked around as if making sure I got everyone’s attention and said,”You see! That nonsense made me cry until I sweat.” I then disappeared into isolation and waited for daddy.
My earliest memory is of an encounter with a cop.
I was walking along the street, both arms raised–one held by my mother, one by our next door neighbor,
We were on a shopping trip, downtown. I remember feeling overwhelmed by the crowds and the noise, dwarfed by the buses roaring past and the sad grey buildings that loomed over us. As we walked along, I noticed a small, round bump in the middle of the road. I remember asking my mother what it was, and she said “”It’s a silent cop. They help direct the traffic.”
‘Silent cop’ was the nickname given to a slightly raised, circular metal traffic marker in Australia. They’re long gone now, but back then they were placed in the middle of intersections and functioned like a miniature roundabout. Being three years old, this information was ungraspable to me and what I saw when I looked at the bump in the road was a small metal helmet, the only evidence of this mysterious police officer who had been buried under the ground. I imagined this person grimly moving their arms about in the dark space carved out for them. And watched how the the traffic above rolled along, blindly obeying each command.
My heart went out to this poor person. Oh, what a terrible job. How scary to be trapped under the ground like that, and loud, with all those cars and buses going over. And what if someone walked on his head? Would it hurt?
Dave | a small field recently posted..a brief history of trees
My earliest memory is..
That’s the the question I ask all my clients before a shiatsu therapy session.
You see as someone who’s earliest memory is falling onto the bars of my grandmother’s coal fire the story a client tells is often a marker towards the patterns that have shaped their lives up to the point of coming to see me.
If I was my client and heard that this happened when I was three then I would take that as meaning my life had been relatively free of early trauma and the treatment could be more focused on either physical trauma or mental trauma which hasn’t been buried so deeply in the psyche. (being called fat at thirteen.)
If,however, the client spends more time having to think about their first memory or their facial/breathing pattern alters then I know more time will be needed to tease out their story and listen more for what they don’t say than what they do.
I have, on occasions, had a clients who’s first memories began when they were eight years or older. The first thought that enters my head is to be careful how I ask questions because a big red flag has been raised in their early years and has been buried deep. These clients need more gentle treatment, perhaps more “holding” rather than “stretching.”
Personally, I enjoy the deep physical contact in shiatsu but I understand that for many clients who’s
“first memory” is of physical or verbal abuse the nurturing touch or simply holding can often have much better results. The trust required to allow a “stranger” to touch their body needs to be nurtured over time and the deep seated memory of their trauma needs to be respected always.
Some of the worst stories have been told by Irish women born during the nineteen fifties when the “troubles” were at their height. As young babies they were sent from Ireland by their parents to live with family over here. These ladies had lost their real identity, their real parents and their early life. Their first memories were their worst memories.
Ernie Boxall recently posted..“Balance at The Almanac”…The European Shiatsu Week 17th -19th September
My earliest memory was the feeling of panic and vertigo.
My brothers and I, all three toddlers, arrived from then Congo to the Sabena Airport, in Belgium, to meet our extended family. Because, at the time, it was impossible for our parents to join us, we tightly held on to two flight attendants, responsible for our transfer.
Upon entering an enormous room, the nice flight attendants betrayed us, by leaving us to a small group of women; clucking around a large man, which we later learned, was our grandfather. The exited women instantly swept us up, and covered us with kisses. I felt panic. I was not the only one, my little brother cried, my older brother squirmed, and I, in my best attempt to form sentences, pointed to the floor, and demanded, “Put me there”.
The instant my older brother and I felt the ground again; we bolted to the nearest open space, but were suddenly hindered by a balcony. We looked down, and were baffled; never have seeing such depth before, with little people walking below us.
They caught him first, but I managed to escape by running into an oncoming crowd. Again, I reached a dead end. This time, I faced forbidding stairs, or was it an escalator? It did not matter. There was no barrier against this danger, vertigo overwhelmed me, and I froze. I felt dizzy and lost, until the people that I ran from, ran to my rescue, and reunited me to my brothers.
My earliest memory is of non-communication. Of course, I didn’t know it at the time. Every Monday morning, my father would take the laundry basket down to the basement. But I don’t remember him kissing either one of us goodbye.
Every evening at dinner, my father would inhale his food and leave to watch TV in the living room. I don’t recall many conversations except for him telling me not to play with my food. You see, I loved mixing my peas or corn with mashed potatoes. So, I would take my time eating and when Dad left the table, I would look at Mom. She nodded her head and I happily mixed my food together. To this day, I still enjoy mixing my peas and corn with mashed potatoes.
Mom and I would go to church every Sunday and Dad would stay home. When we returned, he would be at the kitchen table reading the paper and eating his brunch – scrambled eggs with soy sauce and Japanese white rice. When my husband is traveling I would make this for my dinner. One day I told Dad about it and he called it the “poor man’s dinner.”
When my parents divorced, Dad had me every Sunday afternoon. He did not know what to do with me. There were no in-depth conversations about how I liked/disliked school or what I wanted to be when I grew up. Dad remarried when I was thirteen and moved to California in my twenties. Weekly phone calls became monthly occurrences then quarterly.
As an adult, I hoped we could improve our communication, but that didn’t happen. Oh, we talked about things in general, but very rarely anything on a personal level. As my father’s life came to an end, I realized he had closer relationships with men. Admittedly, I’m jealous because these individuals consider my father as their second father. Dad called them more than he called me. Perhaps, if I had been born a boy, things would have been different.
My earliest memory is when I learnt one of the toughest lessons that forever changed my life.
I was 4 and in my second year of preschool; one fall day, another kid was celebrating her birthday and as a treat for the class, she handed out packets of small crayons to everyone.
As we sat around in a circle, we were all excited as she and one of the teachers handed them out. When she got to me, she handed me the packet…I simply took it without saying “thank you.” I didn’t realize it was needed.
The teacher stopped and said to me, “Now Lindsay, what do you say?” Being 4, I wasn’t too sure what she meant and simply shrugged my shoulders.
With the rest of the class looking on, I was so embarrassed that she was drawing attention to me. I could feel the red in my cheeks rising, since even from a young age I knew that I absolutely hated having all eyes on me.
After I shrugged, the teacher whisked the crayons from me and said, “You have to say ‘thank you’ for your treat. Can you say ‘thank you’?”
I could feel my inner stubbornness bubbling up and as it joined forces with my embarrassment, I knew I wasn’t going to budge. I looked down at the floor and simply said, “No.”
The displeased teacher responded, “Then you will not get the crayons. Good girls say please and thank you. Do you understand?”
I nodded. She then went on, “If you feel like you can say ‘thank you’ we can try this again.”
I sat there while the rest of the crayons were handed out. For the rest of the day, I was pretty quiet as I tried to get over my embarrassment and reflect on what had happened.
The key lessons that became ingrained in my very being that day were:
• Never forget to say please and thank you, even if they’re not needed. This will save you much embarrassment and red cheek moments in life, and
• Crayons aren’t so great anyways.
My earliest memory is lying on my father’s barrel chest, discovering its cushion of softness. As a baby, I ran my hand over wiry strands and reveled in the tickles. Amidst welcome newness, I sensed a pleasant and safe masculinity that would imprint my heart and brand a lifetime of love for this gentle, loving father.
Perhaps because I tickled him, my father laughed. I felt the vibrations reverberate through his chest. It messaged a signal of happiness. It confused me because there was no one else around. This time, there was no mom, no siblings, and no pets in the room. In what may have been my first sense of “me”, I discovered I could create.
At that moment, I bonded with this man. I laughed back at him, clutched his chest and heard his yelp of pain. I was confused again and surprised that I had created an even different response from this gentle adult.
When I was in my 40s, I asked Dad if he remembered this incident. He didn’t. Having had four children before me, this precious minute had joined a myriad of other savouries in the mixing bowl of family minutiae.
My memory, however, has kept the feelings fresh. As a woman now in my 60s, I enjoy recalling the feeling of being a baby lying on my father’s chest and swimming in his welcome presence. My crib had been set up at one end of mom and dad’s small bedroom. It had been morning and mom was downstairs making breakfast. Dad, who worked away from home many months of the year, must have gathered me, his new baby girl, from my crib and placed me on his huge warm chest.
How old was I? Old enough to sense a father’s love. Not old enough, however, to realize how he had set a standard for life.
Amy@SoulDipper recently posted..My Earliest Memory Is…
Perhaps this one is the 5th time am rereading. You have tickled my memory. Those bushy powerful chest …yes, I use to swim there too.
My earliest memory is one that was buried for about five years because I had no one to remind me of it, no one who said “remember when” because I was only four years old when I was taken away from everything I had ever known in my life. I lived for five years with completely different people than the ones I was born to, away from the place where I was born. Away from familiar faces and voices and I believe my memories became so foreign to me that I just forgot them. After the five years away, when I was back with my birth family, some of the memories seemed to return with the desperate prompting and reminiscing of my family. And then, only then, did I recall my grandfather walking home from work in the evenings…..I see him as a shadow outlined with the sun to his back walking toward me. I run to him and reach in his pocket for the package of M&M’s that are always there.
I still love M&M’s to this day.
Charlotte recently posted..Train 59, City of New Orleans
My earliest memory is of walking down white corridors, my father beside me, holding my hand, and older brothers trailing behind. To my memory, all was white, clean and quiet. There was nothing and no one else in the world.
Then we turned the corner and I saw my mother. She looked tired, her curly hair wild on the hospital pillows. I was worried, but when she smiled, it made everything okay. We walked in and my father must have lifted me, because then I was looking down at the tiny, pink-rapped bundle that made me a big sister.
My earliest memory — and I swear this is true — is being held on the lap of my mother’s cousin in the front yard of my grandmother’s house in Connecticut. I was very young, young enough that I was not communicating with speech, but simply crying and wriggling to be released from the arms of this unknown and unfamiliar woman and returned to my mother. I remember the noise of conversation and laughter around us; I think we were having a picnic.
The apple tree that shaded the yard was there for years, although I don’t know if it produced any apples. But I always connected with the early memory of frustration and expressing my needs at that moment, even though I was not old enough to talk.
My earliest memory is of overcooked eggs. Four to six minutes. That’s how long it takes to soft-boil an egg. The water was boiling for too long; it bubbled over the edge of the pot in an angry, raging foam. My eggs were hard-boiled; hard-boiled and chopped into eight pieces. There was no toast. It was too difficult for me to chew. Each segment was fed to me on a rubber spoon – the cold metal of regularly cutlery makes me anxious. I remember the yolk-to-white ratio was less than satisfactory. Not that I was able to complain. I used to complain a lot before the accident. I used to be able to feed myself before the accident too.
Four to six minutes. That’s how long it takes to soft-boil and egg. My earliest memory is of overcooked eggs, my breakfast this morning. Twenty to thirty seconds. That’s how long you can hold information in your short-term memory. Research has shown that long-term memory is potentially unlimited. Not when you have retrograde amnesia. Not when your mind reboots every time you fall asleep. Each morning I wake up. I know that for no other reason than because I’m here, right now. But each morning I’m tabula rasa, a blank slate, relearning my identity, my surroundings, who I can trust.
The woman who overcooked my eggs is called Sue, she told me so. She speaks to me like she knows me, and perhaps she does. Her eyes are grey with a muted sparkle, as if she’s been worn down over an extended period of time. I think I can trust Sue, even if she does overcook my eggs. It should only take four to six minutes to soft-boil an egg. I’ll tell her that tomorrow.
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My earliest ‘memory…is’ a face that faded into oblivion, never to be found.
It was a usual working day in school, teachers busy teaching the young. Rain was pouring out when our class was supposed to be taken out for games. The resentment was overwhelmed by a brief group run into the rain only to return doused. We reached the class and was asked to copy some words scribbled on the black board.
Our class had a neatly kept marble flooring cooling the whole class throughout the year. The teacher will sit on a wooden chair with a wooden desk in front both placed over a wooden platform. The floor was wet and slippery and I was moving forward towards the platform to read those last words on the blackboard, when I lost footing only to find my chin crashing on to edge of the platform. I collected myself from the crash site, walked back to my chain with blood dripping from lacerated wound in the chin region. I comforted myself, and looked around for helping hand. Did I send a message asking for the same, I don’t know?
The girl alias the ‘face’ walked towards me from the other end of the class, when no one seemed to bother, handed me a blue colored scarf to wipe the blood off my face and neck. She sat beside me spoke to me and handed me some water from my own water bottle. She filled in to some extra space near me for the rest of the day. I went home, got my wound dressed by a local doctor. I was excited to go to school the next day, because I had with me an assortment of chocolates for her. She was also happy to receive those. We remained good friends the whole year.
Friendship was short lived. I had to change my school to a far away town next year. ‘No,’ goodbye’s were exchanged. As I grew up the name was erased but she still remains fresh in memories. Does she remember me or the event?
Time remains silent.
My earliest memory is a gory one . Whilst still in my pram reading a newspaper upside down I could hear my grandmother talking to my mother and grandfather about me. How do I know I was reading the paper upside down? They told me years later. Grandma had fixed the logs, papers and firelighters within the hearth, lit the fire with a match then made off to make breakfast whist my mother took her usual morning walk. Grandpa(Papa) retired to his attic hideaway with one of his books while breakfast was being cooked for us all. One of my male cousins always came to have breakfast with us as he lived two doors down and his mother left him with us while she went off to work. I can remember vividly feeling the high pram being toppled as he jokingly attempted to push me into the now burning fire(albeit ever so slowly). My heart was racing as I knew instantaneously I would be burned so I screamed as loud as I could and right at this point my cousin stumbled with fright as he heard grandma’s voice calling ‘What’s going on there?’ Too late I could feel myself falling head first into the slow burning fire but was so lucky I landed on one of the cooler spots which had not ignited as grandma came to the rescue. Many years later this cousin went off to London to work in Scotland Yard, married twice and is now my one of the family few pen-pals I have left, the others being in America. Who would have thought this could ever happen? We have been able to put this behind us, educate one another on other family issues neither were aware of, look back in awe yet have a special bond that neither of us had in the early days.
My earliest memory is of warm blood dripping down my stubby brown fingers. The burning sensation left by the knife that sliced them still remains etched in my mind.
When I was very little, my mother was still in graduate school. Every day I would come home from kindergarten to my elderly great aunt’s house where she watched me. Better said, she watched soap operas while I wandered around the house. I didn’t mind much because I got to explore. My elderly aunt had led a luxurious life and her home was full of fine jewelry, fur coats, and high heels—a young girl’s dream.
On one of my adventures I found a kitchen knife that my aunt hadn’t bothered to put out of reach. At home, I was never allowed near the knives, so of course I was drawn to the forbidden object. I took it in my hands and began to run my fingers up and down one side. I felt powerful. I then ran my fingers up and down the other side—the sharp side. The razor-edged metal sliced open the delicate skin of my still chubby five-year-old fingers. It didn’t hurt until I saw the blood. Then I felt like my heart had been transplanted into each one of my fingers, throbbing with all of its might. My hand turned red with blood before I reached my great aunt. Her face was priceless.
- heart transplanted into each one of my fingers – Yes, still I can see blood is dripping, Should I say nice? Impossible, My fingers are shaking too.
lol. hey, it was very painful and I was 5 years old. :)
Nice, u have responded, but u thrilled me before by that particular line. Thank you.
Ageing old.
He was just a little boy who didn’t understand why the flute doesn’t make music like the flutewala plays before him. The seller smiled at the boy & took another different one from his dirty sack. Again music, & this time of different tune, surprise. ‘’ Try, u can make it too’’ – flutewala amazed & left the kid.
Impossible, music never came out.
That was his earliest memory.
The kid lost that wonder flute in course of time as he was ageing. Natural.
I witnessed this Durga puja an old man, may be at his 60 or 70, came down from his car. Hailed a passing by flutewala in mela, digged his pocket for the purse with a funny smile.
But that man was alone…
My earliest memory is about an educational TV show for children, called Haas Das. Actually, it’s not so much about the show really, it’s about watching the show and things that are connected to this experience; feelings of happiness and security and excitement and wide-eyed wonderment.
Haas Das was one of the first shows screened on South African television. My country only began with television broadcastings in 1975, decades after the rest of the world. I was born in 1975 and Haas Das was launched at around 1977/78, I would say.
I can still remember the little Haas Das slippers my mom bought my brother and I. His were blue and mine were red. Oh, I was chaffed! It was one of my dearest treasures and I was in tears when I’ve outgrown them the next year.
We could play until around five o’clock. Then it was supper, followed by a bath. Bath time was a bright and fun affair with lots of bubble bath. When finished, we were dressed in our pyjamas and Haas Das slippers and parked on the sofa bench in front of the television. All ready and eager to see what Haas Das has in store for us this time.
The excitement, the impatience! And then the moment when the theme music began to play – indescribable! I cannot really recall any of the programme content, but I do remember Haas Das who was reading the news from Animal Land and his colleague, Piet Muis, a mouse who was always forecasting the weather. That made a deep impression on my three year old developing mind; it was just like the weather for castings for grown-ups, complete with weather charts.
When Haas Das concluded his news bulletin and he and Piet Muis have bid us farewell until next time, it was off to bed with me and my brother. We kissed Dad good night and Mom came to read us the Bible story. After our prayers, she tucked us in and then it was only a few seconds before we were in Dream Land, safe and sound.
Golden years, indeed.
My earliest memory is my first day of kindergarten. The day itself went well, and I liked my teacher. She was kind and made me feel warm and safe.
When school was over, the teachers herded the children towards the buses. All the kids had bus number tags dangling from their coats, but for some reason I was placed on the wrong one. I knew something was amiss when the bus driver turned left instead of a right out of the parking lot.
I was initially alarmed but I also remember, quite distinctly, thinking that if I just watched where the bus was going, I could get off at a stop and simply backtrack. I recall having that presence of mind, even though I was only five.
The bus stopped in the sticks of some unfamiliar town. I got up and started down the steps. “Are you sure this is your stop, son?” the bus driver asked. “Yes”, was all I said in a quiet voice, and I stepped to the ground. The bus took off and I was left alone, in the middle of nowhere.
I remember looking about, trying to get my bearings. I started retracing the road the bus had been on, but soon I lost track. Did he take a left here? Should I keep going? I got terribly upset and thought I’d never see my mum again. I burst into tears.
A kind lady pulled up, saw me whimpering, and asked if I needed a ride. Her two little girls stared at me as I tried to explain where I lived. We drove around and around, and it all seemed hopeless. As we entered an intersection, I saw my mum driving in the opposite direction. “There’s my mum! There’s my mum!” I shouted. The nice woman beeped her horn and my mum slowed down, looked at our car, and stopped. I couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.
I felt scared and relieved at the same time. It felt so good to be in the back seat, knowing we were on our way home.
‘What is your earliest memory?’ he was fidgeting with his pen, moving it side to side. Not that I didn’t want to answer, but that the swaying motion had my attention trapped – my eyes were stuck to that bright, plastic pen.
‘Brian,’ he put it down and leant forward. ‘what is your earliest memory?’
I didn’t like his closeness. Squeezing my own fingers I sank in the leathery sofa, peeking at the room through my bangs; he had a staggering amount of diplomas hanging from the walls. He studied hard, didn’t he? I wonder if he ever…
‘Brian,’ his tone was commanding now, edgy. ‘this is our third appointment and you haven’t uttered a word yet.’
He must have noticed my body wincing and the breath coming out my mouth in husky gasps, because he backed off. Doctor Cutting took his glasses off and folded them neatly. He seemed to hesitate – I could tell by his thoughtful look and the final nod of his head.
‘I am going to tell you my earliest memory.’ A crooked smile curved his lips; he moved forward again, almost touching me.
My heartbeat sped up, and nausea almost made me sick; I pressed my knees against my chess and started rocking. I don’t like you. Doctor Cutting grabbed my nape and I squeaked.
‘The first thing I remember is my dad taking me up the ass.’ His lips brushed my ear. ‘Don’t get me wrong, he was always considerate; he used to moan ‘I love you’ every time. So sweet.’ His fingers ran up and down my neck ‘Are you going to tell me your earliest memory, Brian?’
My earliest memory is when I was new to elementary school. A shy child, I could not tell how to approach the other kids in class, particularly during recess.
One day, I had a wonderful idea. If I brought something to school for recess, maybe the other kids would just come to me and join in my game.
I argued with my mom for what seemed like hours. She didn’t think this was a good idea at all.
“Something bad will happen and then what will you do? It will end in disaster,” she said, her eyes half angry, half sad.
I went to school with my bright yellow blow up ball, the one with the smiley face on it, in my two hands. Who would not want to play with such a big, bouncy ball?
I took it from my cubby at recess time. No one had touched it. No one had drawn on it. Nothing bad had happened to it. My mom was wrong.
I went outside. A few kids wanted to play with me. They wanted to play with my bouncy, yellow, smiley face ball. This was going to be the best day ever.
I bounced my ball to one girl. She caught it and bounced it back to me.
I bounced it to a boy who wanted to play along. The ball hit the ground. It lay there. It wouldn’t bounce. It hissed at me when I picked it up.
The kids left me alone there, holding my shrinking, yellow, smiley face ball. My teacher came up to me to ask if everything was alright. I showed her my ball and broke down in tears.
My mother was right. Bringing that simple toy to school was a disaster.
My earliest memory is one of confusion.
It was on a big, open, cemented space in front of my house. I was about 4 years old. I stepped in a puddle of water, thrilled to see my mother squatted down to wash herself. Innocently, I bent over to look. To my surprise, I heard a pow pow. She hit me. I began to cry out of shock and confusion. “I did not do anything wrong,” I thought. “And if i did, why didn’t she tell me?” So, I became very angry. I screamed my little heart out and sat down in the puddle shuffling my legs back and forth in rebellion.
I was hoping daddy would come soon enough to find me crying. Little did I know, daddy would not come for hours. My temper tantrum could only last for so long. I was getting tired. My stomach hurt from crying. I did not want to stop without vengeance though. I was too ashamed to just stop. All eyes were on me now, probably saying to themselves, “Daddy is not here to rescue you now.” My 5 brothers and only sister were spectators, who were always jealous of my relationship with our father. I was his favorite and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind. I learned very early on that when daddy was not home, I had to watch my back.
Oh yes, back to vengeance. It didn’t feel right to hit my mother. I was left with the only alternative. My mouth. Or should I say, “My words.”
Finally, I took some shallow breaths. I looked around as if making sure I got everyone’s attention and said,”You see! That nonsense made me cry until I sweat.” I then disappeared into isolation and waited for daddy.
Oh, the wound of injustice! So cute, though. It’s true that kids hate loosing face, but you sure told them! :)
I don’t know if it really happened……
My earliest memory is buried by denial, hidden in time. And at times, I think, that’s a good thing.
Now much older, I realize it has been slowly killing me, and I am certain I’ll go to my grave far too young because of it.
How sad to think that way.
Sadder yet to realize that the spiritual death of the person I was meant to be happened at the exact same moment my earliest memory took place, and I know I have never been truly alive since.
Sins of the father.
And a mother’s kiss.
I wonder how a man could make his wife do such a thing to their young son. But my father did. And he liked watching. And my mother didn’t put up much of a fight. And it made me sick.
Maybe it happened only once. No wait, maybe it never really happened at all. It seems imagined…..
But I can’t help but wonder, what normal person would imagine such a thing?
So did it happen? Or am I simply different, simply not like you?
My earliest memory is buried, and it’s killing me.
My earliest memory is . . . isn’t really a memory at all. I’ve recalled it so many times, I might only remember remembering.
Me, sitting with my mother by a swimming pool. Our feet are in the water — very sparkly, I only just recall — and I’m so happy. I don’t remember why, but I hope it’s just because. I can’t be more than two and a half, maybe three. Since it’s a memory of a memory, recalled hundreds of times like a replayed video tape, the big details are easiest to see. Biggest fuzzy details on a fuzzy background. I only remember that I’m *supposed* to remember these things.
Except the sparkly, sparkly water where I splashed my feet. I really remember that. And holding my my mother’s — mommy’s — hand.
And my father — daddy — was in the water. Going in with his head first. Surely I didn’t know the word “dive” way back then, but I’ve held this as my oldest memory for a long time, and I know I said “dive” the first time I mentioned it to anyone else.
It’s grown hazy over time. Darker, as if soiled from too much handling. If nothing else, though, I remember my mommy, my daddy, and me, happy.
I’m almost thirty-nine now, and things haven’t changed as much as I once thought.
My earliest memory is of banging my head on the floor while my three older siblings laugh. Though about nine months old, I remember my frustration at their teasing, I can’t speak, can’t tell them to shut up, I can only bang my head.
*
About eighteen months before I was born my Mother contracted typhoid fever. As it’s extremely contagious, she was sent to an isolation ward in the fever hospital in our African town.
Fearing an epidemic, the health department checked the house, and where Mom shopped. She was the original “health-food nut“, who bought her vegetables from a “market-garden” farmer, and drove thirty miles for goat’s milk.
Though the tests came back negative – perhaps she’d picked up the bacterium in India where she was born, and lived until she was twenty – people crossed the road outside our house, and avoided the children.
During her three-month hospitalization, Mom couldn’t phone, or write letters. She simply disappeared.
Until the fever broke, her only “food” was sips of champagne. No surprise she went down to eighty pounds (from one-hundred-and-fifty). Once she could stand at the window, Dad brought the children to wave from the street below.
Though my grandmother lived in the same town, she “cried on the verandah,” instead of taking charge of her daughter’s household.
Dad tried his best, but anxiety about his wife, and caring for three small children – my sister was two, my brothers six and eight – made him into a nervous wreck.
The African nanny took charge. Luckily.
Photos of my siblings during that period show their sadness. After Mom returned home there was a slow recovery for everyone. Six months later she discovered she was pregnant. Terrified that the baby wouldn’t be normal because she wasn’t strong enough, Mom went to “Warmbaths” hoping that bathing in the hot sulfur would cause a spontaneous abortion.
It didn’t.
Her doctor told her, “Don’t worry. Only the rotten apples fall from the tree…“
I was a seven pound, perfectly healthy baby.
dearrosie recently posted..Only the rotten apples fall from the tree…
You banged your head out of frustration that time & now I find it has gone through the cracks of my skull…Wonderful.
My earliest memory is Pain. Unbelievable physical pain from an attack of nature being provoked by a curious toddler. Being 3 is the time of life when the world is new and freshly open to be played with. You are now mobile with a mind to getting what you want. Colors are vibrant and when those colors move you need to see why at 3. In this memory those colors were black and yellow. The black and yellow flew around me and with no initial mission but maybe to learn what I was. Exactly what I was doing. With my short fingers, I reached to feel for the colors. The colors moved quickly around me. The more we moved, the more we eager we became. It became a game. The black and yellow landed on me as to let me know it wanted to play a game. My friend continued to fly under my arms and through my legs. It became difficult to catch the colors by being still; I had to do more. I had to do what boys do, boys fight. So I swung harder and kicked my legs around. Well it worked. I felt the black and yellow colors of my friend on my wildly swung arms around my wrist. I looked down around me. No sign of my friend. The game is over. Maybe the game finished by the whack of my arm but I was going to learn what the black and yellow does. Nature taught me that day those colors fight back. Like a battle call I heard the buzzing roar of my friend by my ear the second before it landed on my neck to give a lasting sting. You don’t cry at first. You rub the sting and feel the dead bee run through your fingers. As you look at the bee that was your friend lying dead in your hand, the tears of pain rushes over your body. I yelled and screamed running into my mother’s arms. The touch of my mother cured the touch of the black and yellow bee. A lesson learned from nature.
Scene Stealer #7
My earliest memory is …
My earliest memory is perhaps an indicator of the sort of privilege and affluence in which I was surrounded as a child. My brother and I were on the curb outside our family home on Edgewater Drive. Anna Benson, our housekeeper, was calling to us because she didn’t like us playing so close to the street. There was no real threat as the residential tree-lined street we lived on had almost no traffic activity. Exceptions included be the arrival of a worker, plumber, piano-tuner, window washer or electrician. The weekly Sealtest Milk delivery or periodic supplies from Rosie’s wine house arrived before cast parties or before the annual St. Patrick’s Day party at the Morgan house. A safe place.
Greg and I moved away from the street and on up the pebble covered driveway. We called them lucky stones. Indeed we were fortunate. Funny how a memory like that sticks in your head almost like a black & white photograph. It was before Kennedy was elected president and in hindsight a much simpler time in our lives as maybe everyone on America. That snapshot, although, vivid lives in my mind with little frame of reference. I don’t know why, on that day, the two of us were together or where the rest of the family was at the time. Maybe my brother, eleven years older than me was at school and my sister, three years older, was too. We had two younger brothers, one must have been a baby and the other yet to be born at that moment. Catholic families, like ours, never thought of ourselves a large, in fact we came to know Caines, Fayans, McDonnells, Murphys and other families with as many or more kids.
That house overlooked Lake Erie which could be viewed best from the backyard gazebo. Years later my brother and I would recall those years as not unlike living on the Kennedy compound at Hyannis Port. We were never Kennedy rich but we were most fortunate in our upbringing.
Wesley A. Morgan
2 Glenmaro Lane
St. Louis, MO 63131
morganwes@aol.com
Nice topic for blog, I don’t know about the content writing,
but I like to read new things.
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I really loved visiting your blog. Thanks