Earliest

She asked, “What is your earliest memory?”  I think it was while we were laying on the beach in Maine, near where the estuarine river, after meandering through the marsh, empties out into the ocean; in early June, in a spot in the dunes where it is sunny buy less windy, just after our job at the environmental school had ended for the season.  It was my Fall and Spring job after graduating from college.

I answered. Maybe it is me, sitting on the beach, in summer, playing with my yellow shovel and sand sifter. I put the sand in the sifter, shake it and discover the uncovered revealed tiny shells, rocks, pieces of dried seaweed, and sometimes a cigarette butt. My babysitter, Joanie, plucks those butts out and walks over to the painted green, metal trash can with the triangle top that squeaks a bit when she pushes on the hinged lid. Parents regularly smoke on the beach and sometimes put out their cigarettes in the sand.  My parents smoke non filter so their butts are just the tobacco and some paper (they insist the tossed butt all burns into ash), but filtered cigarettes have a cottony piece. I know this even at age 2. We find both kinds of butts. Anyway, with Joanie’s help, I can now focus on the beautiful tiny natural items. I might be 2 or possibly younger because there is a photo of me with my shovel and sand sifter, and I think it looks like I’m 2.  And I remember they were doing some construction on the stairs and can see that in the photo.

In the next earliest memory I know I am 2, because my father has laid me on the bed to change my clothes (a job that very rarely fell to him) and he says, “you are 2 years old, it’s time to stop peeing in your pants, do you want me to spank you with your hair brush”.  I say “no” and he doesn’t (but from then on every time I see my hairbrush, wood with natural bristles, I still think “no”…and wonder how did it occur to him, a man who was generally kind, hardworking, charitable, to say those words or even expect his child to be potty trained by age 2).

Then when I am an older version of 2, we are in our “first house” on Hillcrest, which has a guest room on the third floor, where the roof line makes an angled ceiling and the walls are painted light blue and the bedspread is green with the little pompom type texture. My Uncle spent the night. I must be closer to 3, because I’m told, “go wake up your Uncle for breakfast,” and I run upstairs with my older sibling to jump on him in bed, as that seems like an effective wake someone up approach, or I’m just imitating my sibling. I think the breakfast is French toast. Anyway, now I don’t think a kid closer to 2 than 3 would have this level of jumping on someone ability (plus apparently I didn’t walk until later than most kids, and started with running, like I needed time to mentally understand the act of moving on my legs and did lots of observing before I was ready, and then just went for it by running). So that's why I think this memory is me closer to 3.

But for this next memory I'm still 2, in my head, and I’ve been that age for all the time I can remember. We just moved to a new house on Ridgewood. It’s early summer. I have a new sibling about to be born. The babysitter, Joanie, or some other kind caretaker else is here, because my parents are wherever you go to have babies.  But now my new sibling is coming home with my parents and I’m sitting on the stairs, intently watching the front door, waiting, excited. The sunlight is shining through the small window in the arched front door. A few weeks later, I’m competing with my older sibling to stand on a block (one of those cardboard ones that are maybe 6 in by 9 in by 18in and look like bricks; you could build a nice wall with them and then do a puppet show or just burst through the wall like Superman) to watch my mom change the baby’s diaper (Why was that so exciting? I guess just curiosity, babies are cute, this is how you take care of them) and I’m losing the battle for the block and better view; and my mom says, “let Laurie stand on the block because today is her birthday”. As I proudly take the block spot, I say, “it’s really my birthday? How old am I?”  She says “3”.  So now I’m 3. I spend the rest of the morning thrilled it’s my birthday and announcing it, until when I proudly boast it to neighbors who are visiting to see the new baby, one of my parents says “stop telling everyone it’s your birthday.” So I feel like I’m in trouble and I stop.  There is a party later for me, with my grandparents, aunt and uncle  and cousins who live in the same town. We have cake (from the bakery) with white icing, flowers, and lemon filing between the yellow layers and I get some gifts. I still remember I’m not supposed to boast to everyone that it’s my birthday.

It’s nice to have a memory of my friend in Maine asking this get to know you better question and listening. I remember that she also made me a nice going away, good friend celebration, green and blue construction paper card with multiple pages and photos of me from the last few months (she made this for others but this one was for me).