I Remember . . . by Sue Norvell

The very first thing I can remember is seeing a cardinal sitting on a snowy evergreen branch when I looked out our front living room window. I was between 2 and 3 years old.

I remember the new powder-blue wool coat with the dark blue velveteen collar, bought at Mrs. Peter's shop, and worn for the first time on Easter morning.

I remember loving the Good Humor toasted almond bars best of all.

I remember reading all the Oz books, then all the Nancy Drews.

I remember when I started to wear glasses in fifth grade, and could suddenly see the board in school. Even better, I found that I didn't get carsick any more.

I remember our class assembling boxes of school supplies to be sent to children in Europe after WWII, and receiving carefully written thank you notes in French, or Polish. I remember being fascinated by their different handwriting. All I had ever seen was the Palmer Method.

I remember the struggle each morning when Mom braided my hair before school. I don't know which of us hated it more, me or Mom. Finally, when I was about eight, Dad had had enough, and he marched me off to his barber's shop. "Choppin' Charlie" cut my hair in a most unflattering style for me — a page boy. And I never went back to braids. I don't know who was more relieved: Mom, me, or Dad.

I remember my Lone Ranger secret decoder ring. I mailed off 3 Cheerios box tops and a quarter. The ring arrived, got lost, then found, then lost again. I still think I'll find it when I'm sorting through old bits and bobs.


Editor's Note: Ten years ago I compiled memory lists from dozens of people and published them in pamphlets, calling the whole thing The Memory Project. In the Writing Circle on Tuesday morning,  as Sue looked through one of those pamphlets, she found her own early memories popping up in response. What are YOUR earliest memories? Suggestion: Write them down! Make your own list. Share it with people (or don't).

Grains of Sand, by Nina Miller

No matter how much I vacuum, there are grains of sand on the floor of the car and the trunk. Some mysteriously find their way between the sheets of my bed, but the scratchiness is friendly-evocative.

I wish I were of a religion that believed in cremation.  I like to think of myself becoming grains of sand, washed onto a beach and captured by children
building an elaborate sand castle. I will be the turret, on which they place a flag made of a red, white and blue ice cream wrapper. And eventually a wave will come and invite me to rejoin the water of the ocean, until once more, with the shifting tide, I arrive on the beach.

But my people insist on pine boxes lowered into six-foot holes when the sand runs out of someone's hourglass.  I would rather spend eternity in that glass, being flipped to measure the length of lives, or at least the timing of a 3-minute egg.

I Remember Rain, by Nancy Osborn

I remember rain . . .

dripping from the low pine branches all around our house

pounding on the tin roof of our bedroom in my grandmother's farmhouse

sliding down the sides of the tent — don't touch the fabric!

tapping on the sailboat's deck just above my head where I'm sleeping, in the forward cabin

running off the edges of my first umbrella, a gift from my father, from his visit to Switzerland

drawing the worms from the dirt along our path to school, so we would walk on the curbstones to avoid stepping on them

sweeping across the lagoon in Venice, which we could see from our 4th floor apartment

bringing out the street umbrella sellers in New York, Venice, Barcelona

falling all around us as we sit warm and dry on our upstairs porch

catching me unprepared on a hot, hot day; no umbrella, but who cares?

making the garden smell so lovely at dusk, once the storm is over

during my freshman year of college — my roommates and I walking in the downpours in our blue rubber mackintoshes, imagining we were living in A. A. Milne's world

blowing so hard against the windows of the train in Wales that everything I saw — fields, sheep, mountains — was seen from a watery perspective

turning into ice, then into hail, making such a racket on the day I sat with my mother in the hospital, under a skylight

changing into mist and fog in the autumns, when I lived in Maine

making the streets gleam at night under their street-lamps

and my rain-drenched pants wrapping their clammy folds around my legs . . .

. . . but I don't remember walking in the rain with a single one of my boy friends

Things I Used to Know, by Susan Lesser

I used to know all the elements on the periodic chart that hung from the top blackboard rail in Mrs. Carlisle’s chemistry classroom.The chart has grown since then, the rows filled in with new fancy-named elements, one colored box after another with the atomic number included. Or was that the valence? Or is the atomic number the same thing as the valence? I used to know.

I used to know the names of everyone in my 2nd grade class, but last week I found a class photo of us all, a black and white photo. There was one boy in a plaid shirt who had a front tooth missing and one girl in a dress with puff sleeves and her hair in fat braids, that I couldn’t identify. I suppose it doesn’t matter, but I’m hoping their names will come to me, maybe when I wake in the middle of the night sometime.

My 2nd Grade teacher was Miss Lipscomb. The longer than usual skirts she wore were dark, but not black, and her shoes were clunky. She was not afraid to go into the boys' bathroom if she heard laughing or if Joe Hoyt Akers was fooling around and flushing whatever flushes in the boys' bathroom every ten seconds. Miss Lipscomb told us it was impossible anyone would ever go to the moon. The moon was scalding hot where it caught the rays of the sun and freezing cold on the shadow side and no person could last more than three and a half minutes on either side. I used to know that, but not anymore.

I used to know absolutely that if I sat quietly for long enough and didn’t wiggle my toes or breathe too loud, a rabbit would hop up onto my lap, or maybe a grasshopper would jump onto my knee. I was certain we would have a conversation about some common interest, maybe grass or rain or coyotes. I also knew all animals spoke English.

I used to know how to jump rope and the rhymes we chanted when we jumped, how to tie a fancy bow for a birthday gift, and how to dance the Merengue. I’d still like another go with the Merengue.

I used to know how to ride a bicycle. They say you never forget. That is probably true, but now even when I am attempting to peddle down a flat road, I am afraid I will fall. I used to know how not to be afraid of falling.

I used to know Latin conjugations and declensions — hic, haec, hoc, and huius, huius. huius, and so on. But even on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I’d rather clean a closet than go through all that again. I have chosen not to know them ever again.

I used to know how to take notice of the little things like cheerful bees collecting pollen from the sunset orange lily, the gentle sound of the purring tabby cat nestled on the chair across the room, and the golden flicker that springs up in the candlewick I light for my cousin who died this week. Wait a minute! I still know all that, and I want to know that, and I will know it as much as I can.

Open/Closed — Closed/Open, by Barbara Cartwright

Open or closed? Closed or open?

When I’m driving, I like the doors to be closed but the windows open, my right hand on the wheel, my left arm resting on the window’s sill, half in, half out, in case I want to imitate a dolphin, rising up and diving down in imaginary waves, an imaginary sea, just currents of air really. I switch things up and take the wheel to get something from my purse — lodged between the driver’s and the passenger’s seats — open, unzipped, but closed off enough I have to feel for what I want. Driving along at sixty-miles per hour, my mind is open, playing ping pong with possibilities — though it craves the safety of closed, closed off, when I have too much to do, too many things to mix and match. I can actually sense information flying out of a hole in my head drilled wide, made deep, by anxiety and a lack of time. An opening I must close as soon as possible lest I become a flibbertigibbet — with a driver’s license.

Closed or open? Open or closed?

Flowers start off closed up tight tight tight until the sun’s light, the ever warming air, spring’s nourishing rains coax clenched blooms — held tight by what, I wonder — into a state of open vulnerability. Beautiful but short-lived. Because that kind of tenderness, nature’s tenderness, can’t last. Hour by hour, day by day, that state of perfect openness overreaches itself, stretching past any point of sustainability. Some flowers hang on, as their blooms dry out, and remind us daily of their former glory. While others collapse into piles and heaps, clinging to any surface that will have them, if only for a little while, before they decompose and disappear from view.

Open, closed. Closed, open.

There’s no guarantee. No perfect state of bliss. Just the journey from one state to another and sometimes back again.

Things I Used to Know, by Nancy Osborn

I think I used to know a lot more than I do now. As I get older, details seem to dissolve away.

I used to know the names of every student who rode my school bus and could anticipate every stop along the route. I can't tell you any names now but curiously I quite often have dreams of riding this bus as it makes its way along its circuitous route. In the dream I am the only rider.

I used to know all the rules for playing cribbage and I know I loved playing it with my mother every evening, after doing my homework, though she was always able to add up our scores quick as a wink, while I was still trying to figure them out.

I used to know where I did my laundry when I was in college. I'm sure it was somewhere in my dorm. But in the basement, or down the hall? How could I forget something I must have done every week.

I used to know how to play the piano. As far as I'm concerned, playing the piano is not at all like riding a bike. You do forget how to do it. Sitting at the keyboard nothing comes back to me; my fingers have happily given up any memory that they'd ever been familiar with the keys in the past. However, dancing is something else. My body still remembers the repeated and practiced movements of ballet, and though it may no longer move in those controlled yet limber ways, it wants to.

I used to know Kathy's phone number, my friend who I called every night, so we could compare our algebra homework answers.

I used to know how to type really fast, on a non-electric typewriter.

I used to know how to use hair curlers to give my very straight hair just the sort of curls I wished I'd been born with.

I used to know the skills to fit a lot more activities into my day.

I used to know how to conjugate verbs in French, Russian, and Latin.

I used to know the titles of every Little Golden Book I owned at age 5.

I used to know how to get my father's sailboat ready for a cruise — specifically how to turn on the batteries and start up the diesel engine so it would be ready for any emergencies that might come up when leaving a harbor and maneuvering through moorings. Those details have disappeared from my mind, as they are no longer needed. But I used to know and still do know, how to use the sails as the wind requires (jib, genoa, main, mizzen and spinnaker). I doubt those details will ever vanish.

I used to know the words for a lot of Girl Scout camp songs and only realized I no longer did when my sister suggested a sing-along at the upcoming memorial gathering for my mother, who had been a Girl Scout her entire life.

I used to know all the varieties of swim strokes that were required to pass the Red Cross advanced swim test and lifesaving course. But I secretly hated swimming lessons and so promptly forgot almost everything, except the side stroke which I loved, as it seemed like a lazy person's way of swimming, and the frog kick, whose quirkiness appealed to my sense of humor.

I used to know the names of my sister's boyfriends and the addresses of where she lived with these various partners.

Red Ball Jets, by Christine McNamara

“Do you like them?” the nice man asked me as he finished tying the second shoe. “The fit is perfect,” he said, poking the front of my sneaker trying to find my toe. “Why don’t you walk around in them? Give ‘em a whirl!”

“They’re perfect. Beautiful. Just right.” I marveled, unable to take my eyes off of them. “I love them already.” Looking down at my feet, I was almost speechless — my very first pair of Red Ball Jets.

The salesman continued to encourage me. “Go on. Walk around the store and try them out. You can even run — it’s okay to run around in here.”

I stood slowly and began taking very deliberate, cautious steps. It was hard to walk and look at my feet at the same time, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. The toe was perfectly white and the sneaker was bright bright red. On the back of the sneaker was the special blue dot with the words Red. Ball. Jets. I could hear the slogan in my head: “Run faster. Jump Higher. In your Red Ball Jets!”

I stared at them wondering — “Will I have a hard time controlling them? Will it be scary to run so fast and jump so high? I’ll have to really practice.”

I thought to myself —“Maybe start with jumping over small things, like the dog and my bike. And then work up gradually to bigger things — the hedge along the driveway, my sister, and then Mrs. McCarthy’s house.”

I moved around the store slowly, carefully. I wasn’t at all convinced that this nice man understood the power he had just tied onto my feet. After one lap around the store, and feeling slightly more confident, I began to move a little bit faster. Slowly I worked up to a jog. “Still good.” I thought. “I can control these.”

“Do they feel okay honey?” my mother asked as I jogged past her.  "They don’t hurt your feet do they?”

I came out of my concentration just long enough to tell her that they felt great and then I returned to my initiation.

“Ready for Phase 2,” I said out loud to no one, and with that I broke into a run. My feet felt light. My legs felt powerful. I was moving faster than I ever could have imagined.

In mere seconds I was flying out of the children’s section and whipping through women’s shoes. My speed was incredible. “I’m just getting warmed up!” I thought to myself as I took the first tight turn to the right. Out of women’s and into men’s shoes, then boots, socks, and . . . well, I don’t remember the rest of the store. I was moving so fast it was all just a blur.

Two more right turns and I stopped abruptly next to my mother. “That’s a lot of running for a 4-year-old!” she said to me as I leaned on my knees, huffing and puffing. “Should we get them?” She paused, letting me catch my breath. “It seems like you can handle them,” she commented without a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

“I can handle them,” I replied quickly between breaths. I didn’t want her to realize that I hadn’t even tried jumping yet!

"What would happen when I left the ground in these babies?!!" I wondered to myself.

Mom nodded when I asked if I could wear them home, and we went up to the cash register to pay for them.

“Are you sure you’re okay with them?” Mom asked as we walked hand in hand to the car. “I’m sure,” I said. “But just to be safe, I better sit in the back seat.”