I continue to mull over the idea of penning a memoir of sorts that would contain snippets of my life growing up in the country. This morning I was thinking about my earliest memory.
I remember stories I was told about myself, but I do not remember the actual events. One was a story of me as a toddler walking toward a poisonous copperhead in our yard. My grandfather rescued me and killed the snake. These are stories crafted by someone else that regardless have become woven into the fabric of who I am.
Sometimes I remember things because they were memorialized in photos or home movies. I struggle trying to determine if I actually remember these situations or if I simply remember seeing them.
My husband seems to have memories beginning at a much younger age than I. Having three older siblings, so much of my early playtime was spent alone. Perhaps this is the reason I am a bit of an introvert today.
This is one memory, but I am not sure it is the earliest. I think it cannot be because I must be five or six here.
I sit on the cold cement step at the end of the walkway leading up to my grandparent’s front door. I shuffle my feet in the gravel where a car would be parked if we had one. My sneakers, a dime store knockoff of Keds, are streaked with grass stains from yesterday’s play. I see the dew on the grass and wonder why I must be imprisoned on this step waiting for the grass to dry. Time moves at an excruciatingly slow pace. The mountains rise up around me, keeping the sun at bay until mid morning. I cannot help but wonder why getting my shoes wet is such a crime.
So, my dear readers. What is your earliest memory? Do you recall the vivid details? How old were you? A challenge, if you care to take it, describe it as I have above. You can share here in the comments or write a post and ping back to this post if you would like to share. I would love to read what you remember.