This week in each of the Writing Circles we did a twenty minute warm-up, recalling memories from our lives before we were twenty years old. Here is a sample of what came up for us:
I remember . . . .
the time a stray dog came onto the school playground during recess and peed on my little white ankle sock and I cried so hard I had to go home
my first kiss, age 5, on the school bus, with a dark haired boy with pretty brown eyes
my sister and I wearing matching outfits for years and years, until puberty changed everything
daddy's garden where he grew the best tomatoes I've ever eaten; going to junk stores with my mother and loving it
sleeping in my bathing suit so I could jump into the pool when I woke up in the morning and the summer my hair turned green from too much swimming in chlorinated water
brushing the neighbor's dog every day, until I had enough fur to make a pillow
dancing outside at night by myself under a blanket of stars
my fisherman's sweater that I got at the thrift store, and how I would wash it and then stretch it so it would be super long and comfy
the voice lesson where my father asked me to imitate a recording of an operatic aria, and I did, and my big voice finally popped out
taking off my shoes to walk in the mirrored room with my brother at the Albright Knox Art Gallery
my mother standing and stirring and stirring something on the stove while I picked myself up off the floor from where my father had thrown me
throwing bibles around Sunday School class just to be a pain, and getting kicked out by Mrs. Lazaar
watching a neighbor's house burn and smelling the horrid smell of complete ruin
watching the TV show, "My Little Margie," with my best friend Sylvia, at her house in Orient Point, Long Island
listening to the tiny stones in the waves on Long Island Sound as I ate my picnic lunch by the foamy sea-walk when the tide was going out
riding the school bus home, without my mother's permission, when I was 5 years old
fifth grade: a film about menstruation, my feeble attempt to talk to my mother, and my vow to never again try to talk to her about anything important
fifth grade: my teacher taking my hand to show me how to write properly and my snatching my hand away, yelling "Don't Touch Me!"
fifth grade: anger big enough to blow up everything and everyone in my house
fifth grade: receiving a guitar for my birthday — all through my adolescence and beyond I played and sang angry songs and tender songs and songs of longing and yearning and songs telling my stories and my passions, my fears, my hopes, my losses, my triumphs
believing that something really bad would happen to me if I pulled that tag off the mattress of my bed
the smell of my father's morning cigarette as the smoke wafted up the stairs from his seat at the kitchen table, making its way to my bedroom — first on the left
standing next to my desk at school, reciting the 5-times table and being so happy I hadn't been asked to do the 7's
my favorite T-shirt in my favorite color, yellow, with the word "yellow" written across the front in red
watching our German shepherd play in the small pool my mother had put up and filled for us; he only went in when he thought we weren't watching
my sister and I taking our dolls for a walk beside the road, racing, and Kaye passed me and then Mr. Hinman's car hit her doll carriage and knocked her to the ground
three knolls behind the house — it was great fun to walk over them in the summer and to slide down them in the winter
mom and us girls would go into the woods to find hepaticas as soon as the snow was gone; sometimes we found dog's tooth violets
Glen Johnson had the most beautiful blue Chevy and I would wait on the front porch for him to pull into the yard to pick me up for a date — we'd stop somewhere along the way and do a little necking
my favorite place to visit, Nellie Bly, a small amusement park for children — eating pink cotton candy that stuck to my hot hands and to my face
the librarian in our small Brooklyn library who let me rummage through the old Nancy Drew mysteries in the back room, which made me feel pretty special and almost like a librarian myself
the end-of-year kindergarten banquet: I wore a pink dress and white sandals with little heels; my hair was up in a bun — this was the first time I felt like royalty and I didn't want the night to end
the puppy who arrived from the woods when I was three years old, and who stayed for 15 years
the frustration of trying to get roller skate clamps to work on tennis shoes
riding in the back seat, on my knees, backwards, to see where we'd been
biking around the neighborhood to organize a baseball team but avoiding George
the scariest, darkest outhouse in the world, on South Bass Island
having burgers and beer for lunch with my father and brother in local bars, at the age of twelve
listening to my parents giving us "the talk" about the evils of drinking and smoking as they sipped their Rob Roys and puffed on Lucky Strikes
learning my draft status was 1-A and I would soon be going to Vietnam
riding my bike down Rose Drive — not allowed — too steep — too bad!
taking ballet classes in Rochester, a 45-minute drive each way; I had been the big frog in a little pond in my hometown and now I was just a frog
my ballet teacher, a large woman who wore black chiffon dresses and spiky heels; her hair was an unnatural shade of red and she could yell like a trooper, but she needed to in order to be heard over the noise from the bar below
standing in my crib, diaper in place, eyes wide with wonder and amazement, taking in all the things in my view
playing spin the bottle and no one wanting it to land on me and me, so shy and awkward, praying it would pass me by
shyness so strong it made life almost unbearable
hating my parents so much I couldn't wait to leave and then, after the leaving, being so homesick I had a hard time being alive
feelings of self-loathing, never imagining I could experience anything resembling self-love
the blue and white quilted carpet in grandma's kitchen that felt spongy
my sister hiding in the cupboard after she upset grandpa; then finding my sister and telling my grandpa
learning to play a song with five sharps in it and bragging about it to my friends at school
coloring a triangle green before the pre-school teacher told us to, because I could read the instructions, and getting in trouble for not waiting to be told
smoking one of my dad's cigarettes in the bathroom where the bottle of Jean Naté sat on the chrome shelf for twenty years
a small stand of pines on the grassy bit between where we lived and the highway, where once a week every summer the bookmobile came
taking a book down to the riverside and lounging in a tree whose trunk split above the water, sun dappled and happy
doing rain dances in the side yard when a storm was germinating, the smell of ozone and long rumbles
receiving a fat envelope from NASA that had color pictures of the Gemini and Apollo space crafts
finishing "A Separate Peace," by John Knowles, between classes, and being stunned emotionally the rest of the day
being inducted into DeMolay, which was sort of a Masons junior
liking archery because you didn't have to run
building a giant snow igloo fort, almost three feet tall
using my piano lesson dollar to buy an ice cream sundae
Susan made the grass with blue and yellow while I made mine with just green
thinking "Thank goodness for Joanie Quateraro" who occupied the bottom rung on the friends ladder, right below me
trying to be brave and walk to school alone, but the big boys down the street threw rotten potatoes at me and I ran home
hot summers in Illinois, sitting in the living room on the floor, curtains closed against the heat, organizing our marble collections in the gloom
at night, in our bedroom, my younger sister whispering and whispering to me to please, please not fall asleep, she didn't want to be the only one awake in the house
our neighbors always got to drink Kool-Aid in the summer but we never did; it was so unfair
in the summer we would ride for miles into the country near our house — no one noticed us, no one worried about us, no one bothered us — and halfway through our ride we'd stop at the dairy that sold ice cream cones and then sit in the cemetery across the road and eat them
to pass the time on hot summer days I'd flip through Bartlett's Quotations to read what famous people had to say
my sister and I spent every summer afternoon at the pool; she tanned, but I turned into a lobster
my dad reaching down and grabbing a rattlesnake by the tail, snapping it in the air like a bullwhip, cracking its head off and sending it into the next county
putting a wad of gum in the church collection plate one time, causing my mother to see the devil blossoming within me, and that fear compelled her to start looking more closely for other evidence that I might be heading straight for hell on a hijacked Baptist Underground Railroad
sitting under the maple tree in the front yard, soft grass on my legs, searching for 4-leaf clovers
going into the powder room and lining up all the miniature white plastic tubes of lipstick samples from the Avon lady
taping the Sonny and Cher show on my portable cassette player so that my sister and I could act it out until the next week's episode
burning my fingers on my oldest sister's electric curlers
wanting heart-shaped rose-colored glasses like Elton John's for my birthday and not getting them; but I did have plaid platform shoes so at least I got something like Elton John
Cape Cod, age 5, 1957: the smell of hot sand, warm carpet of pine needles, low tide
walking out through deepening water, waves slapping almost to my mouth, and then the miracle of reaching the sand bar, and the safety of shallow water
going to my family’s favorite restaurant, The Wee Packet — Bob Briggs, owner and chef, was a big man with a big voice and he wore a bright yellow apron and a bright yellow tall chef’s hat; he was a jokester with both adults and kids, but sometimes I couldn’t tell he was joking and once he scared me so much I ran crying out of the restaurant
my childhood home in rural New Jersey and the creek that flowed behind it, in the woods, where I collected orange salamanders and put them in a jar with holes punched into the lid
fireflies on a June night, so many that the yard was lit up like a fairytale
reading the "Babar the Elephant" books and feeling that Celeste and Arthur were real, just like people
my beautiful bedroom in our new house, with a flowered bedspread, and Degas prints of ballet dancers on the wall, all of which were chosen by my mother without any question of what I might have wanted, and how that seemed very normal at the time
leaving home for college at 17, not knowing that it was the beginning of a journey that would change me completely and make me not my mother's daughter
planting green beans with my mother and pushing them back into the earth when they began to sprout
reading books while walking to school because I couldn't put them down
the whispered imperatives of the wind while riding my bike downhill
the sweet/sour crunchy pillowy pancakes, freshly made with buttermilk, and dressed with lemon juice and sugar
the smell of the River Thames by my grandfather's house
the thrill of the cockpit view my first time in plane at 4 years old, sitting on Daddy's lap because he worked for the airline so we could sit with the pilots
my skirts too loose, my socks too wide, all slipping down because I was so small and they were so big, not grown into yet
gum on the end of my nose as punishment for chewing it in class
walking into dark woods lit by moonlight, swallowing the full moon whole
stargazing — wondering, longing, hoping there were others out there looking back at me
riding in a convertible to Canada with my girlfriends when gasoline was well under $1 a gallon
the Mr. Softee ice cream truck on its daily neighborhood run
sleepovers at friends' houses where I was always the first to fall asleep
eating rose petals
eating ice cream and potato chips for breakfast
tap dance lessons, accordion lessons, piano lessons, drum lessons, Polish language classes
playing "priest" in my bedroom, my bathrobe tied in front in a big double knot, swinging the incense on each of my brothers and sisters seated before me, blessing them and pretending to be reading in Russian from the Curious George book held in my left hand
wishing for a father, to go along with a mother, like all the other kids had
sitting for hours at my little aqua and black metal table, copying library books by hand
the exquisite "thrill of naughty" when the water balloon left my hands, bound for my sister who was far below me
the sharp pain of being pulled by my ear from my seat, on the first day of kindergartner, and then being bullied into compliance by my teacher and the principal, Mother Superior
the sheer joy of hearing the greatest rock and roll song ever recorded for the very first time — 1960: "Quarter to Three," by Gary U. S. Bonds, of course
every Wednesday — Weekly Reader Day! — climbing to my special perch and inhaling each story, cover to cover
delivering newspapers in a hurricane from a sense of duty until a wise customer told me to go home because my safety was more important than their reading the news that day
having a pretend wedding and forcing my family to sit on the couch as I walked down the aisle with a lace curtain on my head as a veil
my mother asking me what i wanted for lunch every day and I always said peanut butter and jelly and I always got it
listening to Barbra Streisand when I was 15 years old and thinking I wanted to be her
always being scared
being surprised at how good I was at jump rope and how proud that made me feel
going from never fighting with my mother to suddenly always fighting with her
my mother always tenderly peeling and cutting an apple for me as we watched TV at night
when the first Burger King opened in our neighborhood and my dad had a huge fight with the manager because he didn't want any ketchup on his burger and the man told dad never to come back again
my mother was very unhappy about the junk drawer in the kitchen, under the sink — it was always too full, too messy, too damn junky
my grandma would come to our apartment early in the morning and make everyone a Guggle Muggle: skim milk, Bosco chocolate syrup, a raw egg, mixed up the Osterizer blender — as soon as you heard the whirrrr of the blender you knew it was time to get out of bed
on rainy days all the kids in our apartment building gathered in the long downstairs hallway to roller skate or ride our bikes back and forth, play jacks, jump rope, and always making lots of noise, and not caring that we drove the grownups crazy
my first lie, in first grade: I told the girl in the seat in front of me that I was really a third grader but I was in her class as a spy
. . . . I remember it all
THANK YOU, dear contributors:
Annie Wexler
Barbara Cartwright
Chris McNamara
Cora Ellen Luke
Gabrielle Vehar
Grace C.
Janie Nusser
Joyce L Stillman
Katherine May
Kim Falstick
Kim Zimmerman
Leslie Howe
Lisa Schwartz
Mara Alper
Marty Blue Waters
Mary Louise Church
Nancy Osborn
Paula Culver
Ray Edwin
Rob Sullivan
Ross Haarstad
Sara Robbins
Susanna Drbal
Teresa Wagner
Yvonne Fisher
Zee Zahava
