My Semi-Fictional Life #121 (My Earliest Memory)

Hello peeps. Today I have a personal story for you. I hope you dig it.

Researchers say that a child doesn’t start retaining memories until around three years old. This goes against some people’s claims that they have memories as far back as their own birth. Mine doesn’t go that far back, but it’s close.

My earliest memory is of my father’s mother, Beulah Blackwood. I recall vividly having crawled under her coffee table and rolling over onto my back. I gazed up through the beveled glass, on which rested a plain white coffee mug and a navy-blue bible. Grandma Blackwood stepped up to the end of the coffee table and stared down at me smiling, her weathered face speaking clearly of her Native American heritage and rough life. Her silver and black hair was in curlers, and her thick glasses gave her eyes an owlish appearance. I laughed and placed my hand on the glass above me. She smiled back, leaned over, and placed her hand atop mine, only the glass between us.

My mother remembers this, as well. Only difference is, she says my hand didn’t reach the glass. My arm was too short. Mom also says my description of Grandma Blackwood, whom I’ve never seen in photos, is spot on.

The thing is, Grandma Blackwood died in February of 1981. I was born in August of 1980. Should I remember this? People smarter than myself say not. But I do. I can close my eyes right now and see it as if it happened moments ago. 36 years in the past just like it was this morning. Dig it.

What’s your earliest memory? Let me know by commenting on this post, wherever you might come across it.

See you tomorrow,

E.

Pic of the Day

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