I was going through my things this past weekend, finally putting away winter things, and finding my long lost summer clothes. These used to be my all the time clothes, back in California. Funny how quickly things change!
I was hanging out with my parents and what felt like all the neighbors on Saturday morning... we had a garage sale. And I noticed the way my parents talked about me and all their children... picking out stories that I had not thought of in years. Granted, my memory isn't quite what it used to be. They swear they taught me to ride a bike as a kid... I have no memory of that...
It's funny and a little strange to get a glimpse of the way other people see you. I've been trying to distinguish between my actual memories and the pictures in photo albums...
Which leads me to this week's journal prompt: #13 if you are keeping track!
What is your earliest childhood memory?
This is my and my niece in 2010. Back when she took naps and cuddled!
I can remember standing at the upright grand piano in the den. I was probably 3 or 4, just tall enough so that the keys were at my eye level. My mom was seated next to me on the creaky piano bench, practicing. She was picking her way through the Minuet. She kept getting stuck at one spot. I watched her fingers and the little black dots on the sheet music. Back and forth she went. I stood and listened until I saw what should come next, the note that she was missing. I hummed it for her. I remember she looked right at me, then back at the keys. Then, she played it, and it worked. It was right there all along.
I can remember before I even started kindergarten, saturday mornings, Mom would spend the morning cleaning the house. She would turn on the record player in the alcove under the stairs and I would lie on the floor with the liner notes as the music played. I had to make sense of the words. James Taylor, Amy grant, Keith Green... These bands taught me to read.
I remember the rhythmic sound of my dad sweeping the driveway with a push broom. Swoosh, swoosh, tap, tap. I remember the sounds of my dad playing pool, sinking billiard balls into their pockets, as I walked up the driveway after school.
I remember memorizing the sound of each person's footsteps against those old wooden floors. I remember the backyard smelled of orange blossoms in the morning and jasmine in the evening.
Maybe all our sensory details stick with us, attach themselves to our bones. I need to write them down so I won't forget!
This is Not the End,