My First Memory

As I searched my mind for that elusive first memory, I encountered several 'memories' that I began to question. Were they really my memories of those events, or memories other people had of me as a child and they told me the story or showed me pictures to help solidify the images into my memory. The mind is tricky and complex. The mind has the amazing ability to implant information into our conscious and subconscious, to be recalled at a later date, but it is not always easy to discern how a memory or piece of information came into our knowledge base in the first place. With this dilemma in mind, I discarded several events that I remember because I have doubts about the origins of said memories.

The first memory I can definitively say originated within my own consciousness is from when I was about four or five years old and still an only child.

*** I feel I must add a caveat at this point and remind readers that this was in the mid-seventies and regulations were different.

My mother worked the night shift at a rest home and napped part of the day, while my father was at work. In order to make sure I could not go outside or get into anything dangerous while she was sleeping, my mom locked me into her bedroom with her. The lock was high up the door, the hock and eye style. I had snacks, drinks, toys, books, crayons, markers, etc. to entertain myself.

As an intelligent and curious 'monkey' (a nickname that came from my mother's first memory of me - I was adopted when I was about two - and a story for another time) I would spend hours piling various items, especially big books on a chair and then I scrambled up my precarious ladder in the hope of reaching that illustrious brass ring - the lock. I suspect this memory is a composite of several attempts at breaking out of my limited space and entertainment. My mother quit working to be a stay at home mom before I ever achieved my goal.

Another memory, related to this situation and my struggle with confinement, is one of the potentially 'corrupt' memories but is humorous and worth sharing. One particular afternoon, bored with drawing on my paper and knowing that writing on the walls was forbidden, I searched for a new canvas on which I could create my next masterpiece.

I was inspired, as my eyes landed on the perfect medium for my next drawing, to create using magic markers. I brought the red, blue, and green markers over to my new location, sitting on my parents bed, next to my mother's sleeping form. I quietly and meticulously worked on my drawing, working to stay inside the lines, as I percieved them. I crafted a perfect work of art. I was immensely pleased with my rendition. Then the doorbell rang and woke my mother.

I was not able to show her my beautiful creation before she hurried to answer the door, so I followed closely behind, waiting for my chance to show her my masterpiece. The man at the door was smiling and then began to chuckle as my mom stood in the doorway talking to him. (Who he was is long forgotten) He could not contain his pleasure as he beheld my brilliant work of art as I stood at my mother's side. He asked me if I had drawn it and of course I replied proudly that I had indeed drawn that lovely picture of my mother. A little confused and bewildered, my mother turned and caught her reflection in a mirror. To her horror, I had painstakingly applied my marker makeup to my mother's face. She did not leave the house for several days after that - there was no such thing as washable markers when I was a young child.