In my blog-roaming I came across some posts describing bloggers' first memories, and their memories seemed amazingly clear. That was three days ago and I've been returning to the thought of first memories as I've gone about my work, as we had a scare over Abby's health (her vet just called to say her blood work was perfect so big worries are over), as the rainy, cold weather sapped me with ennui and some depression.
My own first memories aren't as vivid as those of the bloggers whose posts I read. I have early memories, but pinpointing an absolute first memory isn't something I think I'll be able to do.
As I considered it there were childhood scenes, feelings, tastes, and sounds that competed with one another for my first memory. This one edged the others out:
My mother was a 21 dealer at Harold's Club in Reno until I was in 6th grade. She worked the graveyard shift when I was little so that she could be with Nel and me during our waking hours. In this memory Nel was an infant and I was around two years old. I would wake up while my mother was getting ready for work and she'd pick me up from my crib, and set me in my high chair in the kitchen where we'd have cinnamon toast together. I can sense the quiet dark night all around us, and remember the excitement of this stolen time.
Harold's Club employees wore western clothes and she'd be in her tight western pants, cowboy boots, western shirt with her name tag on the lapel (she'd put on the white western hat before leaving for "the club"). Often she used this time to touch up the deep red nail polish on her perfectly shaped nails while she talked with me.