PROGRESSIONS At my age the worst thing a mature man can do is have time on his hands. I blame it on a lifetime of thinking. Since football season is still over a month away, I started “thinking” about how even our earliest memories are still a part of the man, or woman we are today. I am assuming that most mysterious of creatures, at least to a man, women, have early childhood memories. I have a theory that women remember differently than men. I believe it has something to do with mothering. Fathering is very different, therefore the eternal mystery of woman. They still scare the be jibbers out of me. Especially since I saw on a picture on Facebook yesterday of two apples and a banana sitting on the edge of a kitchen counter. There was a sharp knife sliced into the banana with the caption, “Girlfriend is angry”. A mad woman, not a Mad Woman, an angry woman, can be hellfire and damnation to a man of moral fiber. At least, that’s what men of moral fiber have told me. So I decided to start an essay of how our memories work, over our lifetimes, to make us who we are. Who else wants to play? What are your earliest memories and how have they left an indelible mark on your psyche? It was 1949. I was six years old. We lived in a small southern town. We had moved there the year before from another small southern town. I had attended kindergarten in this new small southern town but this was first grade. The major events of my life as I now recall were, first, lying in bed in warm weather, looking out at green leaves and eating ice cream. My throat was sore. My tonsils were gone, torn from my throat as I slept and now I was allowed ice cream. The windows were open and a light, cool breeze lifted the lacy hospital room curtains and carried the mix aromas of spring flowers. This is my very first memory. I have no sense of timeline. My second memory was seeing the Piggly Wiggly Supermarket in the middle of a flooded field. My third memory was of a large shadow on the wall in the entranceway hall as my cousins and I lay on pallets in the living room of the house that had the large fig tree. I don’t remember dressing up in a George Washington suit with Olivia Lyle standing beside me in an antebellum dress. That was a kindergarten play but I only remember the picture my mother always pulled out to show guests; that picture and the one of my brother and his blonde curly hair. I shave my head now and my brother, that one of the once curly hair became a scientist and now has a pilot’s license. I remember little of my older sister at that time and I believe my other brother was just a baby. My youngest sister was a passion yet to be fulfilled. The next thing I remember was the first day of first grade. We were in an assembly and some little boy stood in the isle, took out his thing and peed. I remember watching the stream curve down toward the stage. I guess that would stand out to a first grader but that wasn’t the high point of the day. I only lived a block and a half from school so I walked home. Another first grader named Buddy Humphreys followed me, pushing me from behind and yelling, “Wanta fight”. I said no because in our family we were not allowed to fight. Other kids joined around as we left the school yard. He started calling me chicken. The other kids joined the chorus. My father, a former professional ballplayer, would not allow, as stated, his boys to be in fights and besides I was bigger than Buddy. Odd, that was my nickname also. Halfway home I stopped and turned around. “Stop it, I’m not allowed to fight and I’m bigger than you”. He and the other kids started the “chicken, chicken” thing again. I turned to continue my way home when he tried to tackle me. I pushed him away. He charged again. I balled my hand into a fist and hit him in the nose. He stated crying as the blood actually spurted in a stream from his nostrils. I had never seen blood spurt out of nostrils in a stream like that. I remember thinking I must have killed him. About that time a car stopped at the curb and a lady jumped out. Of course it was his mother. The one thing a six year old boy fears above spiders, snakes and girls is “A Mother” and a mad one to boot. She grabbed Buddy in her protective arms and started screaming at me. “My God”, I thought, “the only thing worse than a mad mother was a screaming one.” All the other children started yelling, “Bully, bully.” That’s all it took. I did what any well brought up young southern gentleman would do, I ran like hell. To be continued when I get my breath back from running home.
Posted on: Mon, 29 Jul 2013 00:48:19 +0000
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