First memory

When we moved into the shy, little house that sat on the rural road, it boasted a dirt front yard
divided by an uneven, cracked cement path leading to it’s gray, bumpy steps welcoming you to .
the well worn front porch. The impression an atmosphere can make on a young preschool child
is remarkable. A fresh, empty, uninfluenced brain can absorb all of its surroundings easily.
One of my first memories is not a pleasant one, although unbeknownst to me at the time being
and being I was 20 months old.
My mother and I were sitting on the front porch. There was someone else there, but I don’t
remember who it was. I can remember listening to them talk, but not the words spoken. The
image of the face, or faces, escaped my memory long ago.
I must have gotten bored with it all and toddled down the few steps to the front yard. I found it
curious that a cat had dug a hole, then covered it up. Little did I know at the time, he filled the
hole before covering it. I had never experienced watching anything like that before. I’m not
sure if I even knew what a cat was at that time.
Toddlers like to wander and explore. I was no exception and maybe possessing a little more
curiosity than average, I had to find out why there was a small pile of dirt after the cat left.
I went to dig in that pile of dirt that the cat obviously left there for toddler exploration. Just as I
got ready to push my plastic beach shovel into the fresh mound, I heard a shriek of “no!”
My mother quickly came along to redirect my activities. I realized very early in life that one
should not dig anywhere near where a cat was digging.
Being a mother’s shadow is a job that most toddler’s do without thought. I was no exception.
One of the first tasks of moving into our new home with a combined business was to create and
hang a large sign. The piece of wood that was the foundation of that sign was huge to me. It
was bright white and it was shiny. The uneven surface of the wood could be felt as I ran my
small hands across the mostly smooth surface feeling every trace of grain diminished by layers
of paint. My attention was affixed to these curious pieces of thick, beige paper that mother
would move from place to place on top of the smooth white surface, and then slather them with
brushed red paint. I had never seen anything like that before. Her talking was almost constant,
explaining everything to me as she took those letter stencils and used them in her creation of
the large sign. Again, I remember the talking, but not the words. I remember the feeling of her
kneeling next to me and the attention and connection that I was enjoying as she explained every
step. It’s unfortunate that I do not remember her young voice at that time, unharmed by years of
cigarette smoking and age. I was nearly two. She was nearly 32. We shared the same birth
month. I can clearly remember small holes on either side of the larger, curvy holes in the thick,
beige paper. She called them stencils. She explained that the holes help her line up the letters
in a straight, correctly spaced way. I never forgot that. I never forgot how the sun warmed my
back as I stood so attentively next to her, sometimes kneeling, just like she did. I’ll never forget
how the sun, occasionally peeking from beneath slowly traveling clouds, would lend a bright
glare to the white painted wood. It would hurt my eyes. I’ll never forget her devotion to my
father, as she packed up and moved from a brand new split level home just a few steps from my
Aunt Sophie and Uncle Frank, all of our family and all of the conveniences of not living in a rural area and into an old five room house sitting on three acres with the promise of fulfilling my
father’s dream of having a flourishing business. I’ll never forget the beginning of lifelong
memories and lessons so implanted in my soul, that I am sure they will never fade away.