The First Time I Saw My Mother's Face
by Janie Nusser
Three years old. A late spring day. Brother and sister in school, so it is just the two of us.
Mom was hanging clothes on the line, and she asked me to help her. The back yard was teeming with inviting distractions — huge orange monarch butterflies on the white wisteria bush flowers; lady bugs crawling in an orange mass from the middle of a rotten tree trunk; bees hovering excitedly over bright yellow dandelions.
But my mother wanted my help, something she had never requested before, so I put distractions aside.
I reached into the basket to lift a wet, heavy sheet. My arms trembled with the weight. My mother leaned low to grasp the sheet, and that was the moment it happened. There was her face, close to mine. I was startled but also moved to tenderness. I saw anxiety and worry on this beautiful, young, vulnerable face. I reached up, hoping to smooth the emotion that danced there, certain my touch could heal her. But the face moved out of reach before I could touch it.
It was a fleeting moment. I knew it was something to be treasured, remembered, but I had no way to communicate this moment of grace. All I could do was hold on to it. Forever.
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You Go First
by Linda Keeler
"I want to go first!"
"No, I do!!"
My sister and I fought, as sisters often do, determinedly. We were in the car on our way to the small local airport. My dad's friend from work had offered to take us up in his plane! I was 6, Wendy 2 years older, and we kept up our running battle while my dad, with his usual patience, quietly drove the car. An airplane — we were going to ride in an airplane!!
When visiting our grandparents in Philadelphia, our dad had often taken us out to the airport to watch the takeoffs and landings, and we were fascinated.
At last we pulled into the little airport, got out of the car and walked toward the hangar. There it sat — a teensy tiny toylike two-seater plane.
I said, "You go first!"
Wendy retorted, "No, you go first!!"
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First of All
by Marty Blue Waters
First of all, what I most love to look for in this weird world we live in, is poetic justice. When the underdog champions in the final moment, in the grand style of David and Goliath, I stand up and cheer. In the brutal world of pro football in America, for example, a crucial playoff game takes on the elements of all-out war. I pity the referees whose jobs are to try to control these emotional maelstroms, or maybe I should say "malestroms"? They must call fouls on men in armor with egos out of control — and the celebration dances to prove it. Their whole careers are on the line with that last play, for God's sake. How to define it all? Hopefully for me, as I watch from the comfort of home, the game will end in the final second when the little kicker trots out in a pristine uniform and kicks a game-winning field goal. Or when the bruised and battered quarterback manages to sail a "Hail Mary" pass into the end zone, and a very acrobatic teammate jumps above the clamoring crowd to grab the ball for a winning touchdown. There is nothing like it in the world, this sudden reversal of final reality. Poetic justice!
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First
by Maureen Owens
"This is a wonderful day. I've never seen this one before."
— Maya Angelou
— Maya Angelou
First, I heard him whine, yawn, shake his tags, and pop to his feet. My first thought is that he is a beautiful hound, a dear soul in this first meeting of the day. He knows how to do a first. After his reclining and rising firsts, he hops on three lovely, long legs to the living room, where his next first is to grab a toy and squeak it until he can't. His third first of the day is joyous greeting — remembering his people, and that there's loving to be had. Firsts, seconds, thirds, etc. continue through his day, each moment an infusion of all that makes his dog-heart sing.
These are my first sentences of the day, strung together into the morning's first spew. Travis is not my first dog, he is my seventh, but he is my first three-legged dog, my first black greyhound, my first Travis. He's a gem; though they are all sparkly and different, this one's got a job, though this is not the first time a greyhound's been assigned to mentor me. This one, my first three-legged black greyhound, Travis, is nudging me in new ways. I thought I knew resilience, but he's showing me the essence of that word.
Today is the first time in a while that I am remembering the dog lessons. Everything is a first, and even if not really, might as well greet it as one. Bounce out of bed, meet the day with fresh eyes, grab a squeaky toy and onward.
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The First Story I Wrote
by Paula Culver
When did I first know I wanted to be a writer? My first concrete memory is that it happened when I was probably 8-ish. I wrote a long story — to me it was epic; I remember it being at least 10 pages — about a talking cat who travelled the world. I wrote it on lined school paper, single-sided and made the cover out of construction paper. Then, I punched holes in the cover to line up with the holes in the paper and bound it with yarn. In contrasting colors, of course! I don't remember the title or details but the memory of it has had a significant impact on me. I've torn my parents' house apart many a time looking for it but have never found it. My dad probably threw it away, just like he did with my other writing. It doesn't take years of therapy to figure this one out. Or does it?
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My First Time Baking
by Sara Robbins
The first time I baked bread was at the hippie farm in Spencer. I'd gone there originally with a guy I barely knew, to check out the scene at the commune where he lived. One of the women there — Stephi — had started a bakery of sorts, completely illegal of course; no health department inspections of certificates, no legal tax status. Just hippies making whole grin bread in the huge funky farmhouse kitchen. Stephi taught me the basics and I got creative with flavors. For some reason none of the men participated in this venture. We baked and baked many loaves: whole wheat, rye, cracked wheat, cinnamon swirl, cheese bread, herb bread — you name it. Dense hearty real bread. Some loaves came out burned on the outside, or raw in the middle — these went to the chickens. Some might have a long hair inside or a bit of grit from the kneading table, which was never truly cleaned. we figured the oven would take care of any germs. So I learned to mix, knead, and bake bread. Which actually led me to a job, that turned out to be my "career" I guess, first as a baker and then as a cook.
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First Question of the New Year
by Sue Norvell
Is it too late to get organized? I hope not. I can’t bear the idea that I will live the rest of my life dealing with “stuff.” Yet, put me in an antique shop, a kitchen supply emporium, a store selling yarn, ribbon or fabric, or — oh hell, even Lowe’s or Agway! — I can see ten things which intrigue me. Maybe it’s the feel of a tiny carved wooden bird ornament, an English Robin, painted and so smooth it’s almost soft to the touch. Perhaps it’s a large, heavy brass clip, such as is used on a horse’s harness. Or is it the vibrant red/black square of fabric which tempts me? Do I yield to the temptation and buy it? Less and less often. But I still look, and think, “Of course that would be useful!”
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2 Firsts
by Sue Perlgut
My first time swimming all on my own was after my father dropped me into a swimming pool — I was four or five years old — and let me go. I went under, sputtered, and then I floated. The first swim stroke I learned was the doggie paddle. I became quite a good swimmer, even winning a swim meet when I was fifteen, doing the backstroke.
The first time I took my driver’s license test I was just 17 years old. I’d been practicing driving with my father as the driving instructor. I went for the test and for various reasons failed it. At that time in New Jersey one could try again six months later. In the meantime I practiced. My father taught me a no-fail way to parallel park the car — which I still use to this day — and I passed the test, this time with ease, even getting a compliment from the tester who said that my parking was the best he’d seen in a long while.
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The First Time I Thought My Father Was a Hero
by Zee Zahava
It's the winter of 1958, and there is a blizzard in the Bronx. So much snow that the schools are closed, the busses aren't running, and a moving car hasn't been seen for hours.
All the men on our block are home from work on that weekday and when the snow finally lets up they take to the sidewalk with shovels. Where did these shovels come from? I think they must be secretly stored in the basement, behind the laundry room, for just such an emergency.
The men emerge from their apartments with scarves wrapped around their faces, and hats pulled down low over their red ears. Those who own a car (we don't) are busy scraping the windshields clean, digging Darts and Chevys out of snowdrifts.
It is all very exciting to watch. Wives and children lean against the brick buildings, cheering the menfolk on. Mrs. Teitelbaum, our neighbor from one flight up, fills a thermos with hot coffee and brings it to her husband, the oldest man out there. She begs him to slow down. He tells her not to fuss at him. My own mother never fusses over my father and she wouldn't have brought him coffee even if she knew how to make it (which she doesn't), and even if we owned a thermos (which we don't). But I can tell she is as proud of Daddy as I am, busy with his shovel, telling jokes and making the other men laugh, acting as though this is the best time he's had in a long while. Which it probably is.
But none of this is why I think my father is a hero. That comes the next day, after the city trucks have come and cleared the streets so cars and busses can get by. The sidewalks are mostly passable now, the schools are open again. But at the crosswalks the snow is still piled up, too high to walk through or to climb over, if you are a little girl. And I am. My mother says I should stay home from school but my father says no, I shouldn't miss even a minute of first grade.
Both my parents help me get into my winter gear: padded leggings that go over a pair of tights and under my scratchy wool skirt; two sweaters and two scarves; my winter coat; mittens; and that silly hat with the white pom-pom on top, that Aunt Cookie made for me.
Eventually it is time to set out for P. S. 6. I can hardly move. We only have to go two blocks, up a slight incline, in the opposite direction of the Bronx Zoo. I waddle as I walk.
Daddy holds my hand to keep me steady. When we get to the corner and the first snowbank, he lifts me up onto his shoulders and strides right through the high pile of snow. Just strides right through it. It comes up to his knees, maybe higher. He grunts just a little bit. But he doesn't jostle me and he doesn't drop me. And I stay dry. All the way to school, even when he could put me down on the sidewalk, he carries me on his shoulders. This is the first time I think my father is a hero.
