Earliest Memories

Sharon and I were just discussing our earliest memories.  Sharon's was viewing a deceased person in a casket at age three.  She described the tearful crowd at the funeral, her concern about the distress of her Mom and relatives, and the utter strangeness of the whole scene.  She had no concept of death prior to that experience, and now she was getting a full exposure.  Her Mom had gone to pains to explain as best she could before the viewing what it was all about, but every adult realizes that it simply cannot be fathomed until the child confronts it for real.

Sharon recalled viewing the dead relative, an elderly aunt, and wasn't frightened at all.  The woman's hands were folded across her stomach, a serene look on her face, but Sharon's most vivid recollection was of the aura - a diffuse light that seemed to emanate from the body and surround the open upper half of the casket.  Years later when she was capable of expressing what she saw, Sharon described the feeling of peace that came from the dear soul, and what a rewarding experience it was.  Her Mom told the same story for years after, including Sharon's description to her of the light.  All in all, the best first exposure you could hope for, and a mystical experience to boot.  What more could you ask for?

My earliest memory was of a jar of strawberry preserves, broken and laying on the floor near the edge of the table I had pulled it from.  I was under the table, scooping up preserves with my fingers.  My Mom was chasing after my sister Sue and brother Tom, ages 4 and 6 respectively.  Seconds prior, they had been in the kitchen with me when the deed was done, Mom had heard the crash and rushed in.  Their mistake was dodging around her and running away, as fatal a mistake for them as for the Hiker who tries to run away from a bear. 

And while the bear isn't attaching any particular significance to the Hiker running away, to Mom's the world over, running equates with guilt.  At three, I knew this, which is why I did not run.  Having bolted, they not only sealed their fate, but delayed indefinitely my day of reckoning.  Working the odds, I peered around the corner with a partial view of the dining room to the left and the living room to the right, anxious to see what my sibs had come to.

I had some hope.  Sister Sue in particular was very slippery, and could typically make either of our parents do three or four laps around the lower floor with the occasional diversion upstairs before they caught her.  I was counting on her to delay my inevitable fate. 

Mindful of the window of opportunity, I doubled down on scooping up the strawberry goodness on the floor, and was proud of my efforts to avoid the glass pieces strewn all around, an accomplishment that I would share with my mother later.  Less than a minute in, from the front room I could hear the unmistakable sounds of my sister brought up with a round turn, followed by "whack, whack, whack", as she got the obligatory three pops from my Mom's open hand.  Tom had apparently upped his game to avoid being caught first, and had taken the opportunity to bolt from behind a living room chair to the endless refuge thought to exist under the dining room table.  I witnessed all of this from my spot on the kitchen floor near the entryway. 

Susan cried very dramatically, although the pops did not seem the type that caused much physical pain.  Anybody who has ever gotten a spanking knows that their parents have certain expectations of them, and that one of those is to cry with flair; that way everybody gets a little something out of the transaction.  Meanwhile, Thomas proved not to be near as crafty as he thought, Mom snagged him by one of his legs in less than one trip around the table and braced herself to haul him upright for the same three pops.  Now, this was all strictly a matter of form, since they had absolutely no effect on my brother who at the young age of was a massive slab of muscle and bone.  To this day he remains the only person I know who actually caused a broken bone for the Spanker.  The broken digit would be my Dad's forefinger on his right hand, his off-balance swat of my still-moving brother catching the finger point on, instead of the broad handed stroke he intended for some long forgotten offense that occurred when he was twelve.

But, I digress.

Mom got a good grasp on Thomas, and hand-curled him into a standing position, no mean feat since at the time he weighed about 45 pounds and had a talent for instantaneously converting that mass into dead weight.  He quickly got his three pops, and I realized the jig was up.  Without losing a lick of momentum Mom stormed into kitchen, and she was not happy.  She knew I was the culprit, because my cowardly siblings had told her so in a craven attempt to avoid punishment.  I was also the only one covered in strawberry preserves.  Patting myself on the back for not running away proved to be premature, and, not having thought this one through, I had absolutely no contingency plans.  Suspended briefly in mid-air, my sticky left arm held by the wrist, my Mom propelled me towards the door and I got the three pops as I moved forward, their effect lessened by my momentum. 

I did my part and cried heartily, then did my best to avoid the others, both stoked by the moral certainty that my misdeed had caused their punishment.  Once Mom had cleaned up the mess, the whole thing would be forgotten.

Years later when we would reminisce about the event, Mom would explain that my particular offense was to break a jar of strawberry preserves instead of the standard grape jelly.  Preserves apparently cost about five times more, which explains why we kids never got any.  And once as a young adult I made the mistake of telling her that I couldn't help but feel that this whole situation could have been avoided, had she simply put the jar out of reach, and oh by the way, how come you didn't get me out of the glass-filled goop before you handed out spankings?

Mom simply laughed at me.

So, there you have it: one three year old's earliest memory is an existential and spiritual experience; another's is the tale of a petty toddler misdemeanor. 

The mind is a funny thing.