Digging deep today, TKZers!
As readers and writers, memories are important. When we read, we are often bombarded with memories from our own earthly timeline. A character being lost might dredge up that frightening memory when your child got away from you in a crowded store. Or a nasty break-up reminds you of one you went through.
The question today is this: What is your earliest memory? Pleasant or harsh or in-between, what is a memory that stands out from your youngest years?
My earliest memory is when I was five and my sister was two. She slipped on the ice outside our house and banged her head on the walkway, knocking her unconscious. My dad hurried over and picked her up. I remember her head flailing around on his shoulder as he rushed her into the house. My six-year-old brother and I both thought she was dead, and were afraid to go in. But then we heard voices, Mom, Dad, and baby sister. We inched in and were relieved to see her sitting up in Mom’s lap.
This memory is especially poignant for me because thirty years later she really did pass away—and along with the reality of her death—was infused into both of my novels in different ways. And, tomorrow is her birthday, which makes this post/memory even more precious.
Your turn! What is your earliest memory? And how have you worked it into your story?
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2 things came to mind:
1) I grew up in a rural area on the east coast & in one place we lived, there was a country store within view of the house we lived in. I was under 5. To this day, I swear that one day when I was standing outside the house, a gigantic T-Rex reared it’s big long neck and head up into the sky behind that store. It felt so real. But my family always told me I had a wild imagination.
2) The other thing I can remember from early childhood was one of my most cherished memories—getting to take my beloved collie/shepherd mix dog Bob Barker for show and tell at my kindergarten class. I still miss him to this day.
Not much chance of my writing a dinosaur into a book but I do continue to use my imagination (that’s why we write!). And while I haven’t used the Bob Barker scenario, certainly love of pets can show up in certain stories.
Hi Brenda!
I absolutely love the name Bob Barker for a dog. He sounds like he was a wonderful companion/pet.
Not to argue with your family, but I think you really did see a T-Rex that day. Just because no one else saw it doesn’t mean it wasn’t real, right?
🙂
Have a great weekend!
I was about two, and although my mother insisted I couldn’t possible remember, I do remember bits and pieces from my tonsillectomy. Coloring, seeing the brads on red and yellow chairs.
Hi Terry…
I’m pretty sure a surgery could be stored in a 2-year-old’s memory banks. The human brain is a marvelous piece of equipment.
Now, if only we could conveniently lose some of those Ahem! memories. Wouldn’t that be cool?
Have a great weekend!
Earliest memory must have been about four. I remember sitting on the concrete steps in front of our house, waiting for the neighbor kids to get home from kindergarten around noon. I was younger than they were and was envious that they got to go to school and I didn’t. Also felt lonesome and left out with no one to play with.
I don’t think I’ve ever used that memory in a story but have probably tapped into the emotions for characters who felt lonely and left out.
Good morning, Debbie.
“…tapped into the emotions…”–yes, that’s what we do.
The emotion surrounding losing my only sister (and my younger brother 5 years earlier) truly fed into my novels, especially No Tomorrows…for obvious reasons.
Thanks for stopping by this morning…
I was probably 3 and in Nursery School. I vividly remember the room. One wall had a mural of a grandfather clock with a mouse running up it. A little girl was crying. I wanted to comfort her and the only way I knew was to pet (not pat) her head. I remember the teacher saying, “Oh, you’re petting her to make her feel better.” (Ultimately, I think, that’s why I write.)
Good morning, JSB!
I remember seeing a grandfather clock with a mouse on it, somewhere, just can’t remember where or when! That’s odd…
(Ultimately, I think, that’s why I write.)
And, when the bad guys get what bad guys have coming to them in your novels (and Mr. Gilstrap’s), I do feel better. Thanks!
Have a great weekend!
I remember sitting on my mother’s lap while she taught me how to trace my name on dotted lines she had written. (It’s nice to have a short name when you do this.) I must have been around three years old.
Years later our 3-year-old godchild, Kay, sat on my lap while I taught her to trace her name.
How sweet, Kay!
I have some memories of sitting as close as possible to my mother as she read to us. She was the literary parent, Dad was the fixer parent. She instilled in me a love of books and reading. Dad had owned a service station for awhile when I was young, and I loved playing with his tools sometimes. In fact, he let me keep “car parts” under my bed. Every once in awhile, I’d drag’em out and “make stuff” with them. 🙂
Have a great day!
I was around four. And it was before Easter. A huge tree grew in our front yard. For whatever reason I was looking under the tree for Easter eggs, and found one. I ran in to show Mother that the Easter bunny had come early. I proudly held out my hand to show what he had left me. But it had not been an egg. And the Easter bunny had not left it…a neighborhood dog had. My “egg” was an old, white dog turd.
🙂 🙂
How funny, Laurie! I bet that story made the rounds of your Mom’s parenting circles, right?
My son, about 2, once ate a Santa Ana, CA snail. You could saddle and ride those ugly things. He got shell and all into his mouth before I could get to him.
Maybe that’ll be his earliest memory some day…
Thanks for stopping by!
The earliest memory I can scrounge up is from a hospital stay for eye surgery. I decided—very much against the doctor’s orders—that sneaking into the bathroom for a drink of water was a good idea. In the days when ether was just about all they used, that little adventure left me one very sick boy.
As a follow‑on to the discussion about early memories, I’m in the final stage of rewriting and preparing the second edition of my nonfiction book, The Secret Of A Better Memory: History, Mystery, Mastery; A Short Book on a Longer Memory. Much of the original material remains, but there’s been real progress in the field since the first edition, and it felt like the right time to bring the book up to the current state of the art. I don’t remember why.
Hi Marshall!
Your book sounds fascinating. Keep us updated about it.
Your escapade probably got talked about amongst the staff…I know because I used to be one! 😉
Have a good one…
When I was about 2 1/2 I thought it would be a good idea to help my godmother wash my socks in her wringer washer…when I fed my sock to the wringer, it caught my fingers and pulled my arm through up to my shoulder. My earliest memory is seeing my arm tied to the bedpost so I wouldn’t burst my skin where the wringer pushed all the fluid under my arm. I still have scar tissue under my left arm.
Good grief, Patricia, that sounds horrible!
Glad you’re still around to talk about it…
Patricia’s story about the wringer washer brought back an old saying I haven’t heard in years — something about “getting your tit in a wringer.” Crude as it was, it always seemed to fit those moments when curiosity or determination got the better of us and we wound up learning a lesson the hard way. Funny how those early scrapes and misadventures stick with us just as clearly as the sweeter memories.
So true, Marshall!
Wow!
I old enough that I remember my mom soaking our cloth diapers in the tub with boiling water. Jumped in that once, when about 2. Hair never grew around my ankles again.
We don’t just have scars. We have memories.
My earliest memory, at around age four, is lying on the grass lawn of our little house in north Seattle and staring up at the blue sky, through a lattice work of branches from the big maple tree that grew up beside our house.
Hi Dale!
Sweet memory! Love it…
We have a 50 ft maple tree in our yard & I can visualize what you described.
🥰🥰
At around 2 or 3, my dad built a little wading pool using a tin roofing sheet and 2X6 lumber. He put it under the single tree in our grassless yard. We lived in a piece of scrub desert in south central Texas, in a four room, clapboard house with not even a fan and no other house in sight. In the summer, except for the little pool in the shade, the only livable space would be on the front porch. Mom would pray for a breeze. My baby brother and I splash around and squeal when our mutt hound jumped in with us. I don’t remember it as being so poor. It was heaven.
Thanks for helping me remember my late father and smile.