Never too old to start your memoir even if you've forgotten half your life. Begin with your earliest memory. Mine is pretty paltry. But it can stand alone, however wobbly.
I hereby delightedly declare you completely recovered from your bad pill swallow! I'm going to take this as a writing prompt. Dilemma #1: what do I really remember, and what do I remember second-hand from my mother's recounted stories?
Perfect assignment, the more I think about it. You can tell a lot about a person by the kinds of stories they tell--so your mother can be revealed etcetc
I did not know that my earliest memory was a memory.
Often, from childhood through the early adult years, I would see a solid canvas of neutral colored nubs. It was perplexing, but not worrisome.
Then, I produced a child. At around 4 months he enjoyed being stomach down on the carpet. I would join him. He was cute, doing push-ups and then rubbing his face in the (clean) carpet.
Sometimes we would doze there together. It was one of those times, as I awakened, I saw it.
The 30 year memory was the view of the carpet as a baby.
Hi - I liked your earliest memory story. It inspired me to think of mine. I was a child of 10 children, the youngest, and the first I remember was hiding every day in the same place by an end table of papers and magazines not wanting to go to kindergarten. There is one other when I was young and in the crib in my parents' bedroom. Maybe I'll write about it. Thank you. Wonderful piece.
My maternal grandma (I called her Nanny) used to take me to the beach before everyone woke up. This was down at the Jersey Shore where she had a house we’d go to in the summers. I’d wake up at an ungodly hour and tiptoe down the stairs, and she’d pop out of her room with the most mischievous smile, wrap me up in warm clothes, grab a blanket, and take me to watch the sunrise. I can still smell the damp ocean scent that soaked into everything, the chenille bedspreads she liked, the way the floorboards creaked, and the warmth of her hand holding mine. She died when I was four, it’s amazing to me how vivid these memories are. Almost all of my early childhood memories are of my Nanny.
I can close my eyes imagine the window and view from above you wrote about. What a great memory it is for you. It sounds as if it was an important time, a cherished part of your childhood. Thank you for sharing.
Reading your writing is turning on the movie I didn’t know I wanted to watch, but it’s become a craving of mine, to walk with you. Thank you for this positioning. I was on my toes peering out the window with you, but when I turned around, we were pouring strawberry frosting over strawberry bread in a high-rise apartment in Naples, Italy. What I know is my bayou panhandle Florida mother was barely not a teenager and she’d married a solider and had three babies in five years. But what I can remember is the waxy, pink frosting, her brunette perm, and the soft, cold Formica countertop.
This is a lovely piece of a faded puzzle. In my 80th year, I remember at four reaching for the screen door and being stung by a wasp resting in the shade on the underside of the handle. We were both shocked and both felt betrayed by our seemingly benign surroundings. But at least -- unlike the unlucky insect -- I had a mother nearby. She came quickly and held me and made a poltice from one of my father's cigarettes and hummed the pain away.
remember that when I yelled it sounded like mom-may, not mommy. Such a weird detail to remember when so much else is forgotten.……
I remember thinking my mom’s name was sweet pea, cuz that’s what Daddy called her….lol. I am 65, and my sweet mama is 86… her name is actually Loretta….lol You are doing great. Write on dear one, Di
This piece turned me into a 5 year old with perpetually skinned knees. For me, Mommy was for close communication, Mom-may was for longer distances or if I got no response. I love how this was part of your memory and how it triggered my own.
I love this, Abigail. I have written a little about my own childhood, but your focus on the very earliest memories is a path I'd like to try. My father too went to war, and I have this vague memory of watching from some high platform as the train he was on went away. This was Dallas, and the war was evident in our major airport, with jeeps and other military presence there. It was Love Field, and yes that place carries the memory of JFK on that terrible day. Thank you for your evocative and fine writing.
Good to hear your voice as always, Abby! I am experiencing the same thing…this patchwork memory…yet going down the trail to the past the funniest things do pop up out of nowhere and of course I have to write them down or they flee back into darkness. Then there are writings and poems…I found two more the other day just checking to see if I could still access old work, and up they popped like ghosts tattooed with the past. You’re onto something, too, about “not knowing” how to comfort a parent or another adult or even respond to something too big to fathom.
So glad you are posting again. It's strange what we remember. Doris Doerrie, a German filmmaker and writer, recently wrote that she begins her writing workshops with the question - what did the floor in your childhood room look like. I don't remember. It was probably carpet. I would remember wood under my feet. But I remember the carpet in the living room was grey and scratchy and I'm sure my father picked it, because it was very fashionable and he was into all the new "design" of the 60ties.
A Mickey Mouse figure. There was a Micky mouse figure in my room. That I remember. Maybe only because there are photographs.
And tissue wet with tears (my mother) stuck between the sitting and the leaning part of the green sofa in the living room.
When I close my eyes I remember the smell of tears. Autsch.
I hereby delightedly declare you completely recovered from your bad pill swallow! I'm going to take this as a writing prompt. Dilemma #1: what do I really remember, and what do I remember second-hand from my mother's recounted stories?
Perfect assignment, the more I think about it. You can tell a lot about a person by the kinds of stories they tell--so your mother can be revealed etcetc
well, that's a good way to begin!! with your dilemma!
I did not know that my earliest memory was a memory.
Often, from childhood through the early adult years, I would see a solid canvas of neutral colored nubs. It was perplexing, but not worrisome.
Then, I produced a child. At around 4 months he enjoyed being stomach down on the carpet. I would join him. He was cute, doing push-ups and then rubbing his face in the (clean) carpet.
Sometimes we would doze there together. It was one of those times, as I awakened, I saw it.
The 30 year memory was the view of the carpet as a baby.
OH! How wonderful!!
Hi - I liked your earliest memory story. It inspired me to think of mine. I was a child of 10 children, the youngest, and the first I remember was hiding every day in the same place by an end table of papers and magazines not wanting to go to kindergarten. There is one other when I was young and in the crib in my parents' bedroom. Maybe I'll write about it. Thank you. Wonderful piece.
Yes, please write about it. And put it up.
My maternal grandma (I called her Nanny) used to take me to the beach before everyone woke up. This was down at the Jersey Shore where she had a house we’d go to in the summers. I’d wake up at an ungodly hour and tiptoe down the stairs, and she’d pop out of her room with the most mischievous smile, wrap me up in warm clothes, grab a blanket, and take me to watch the sunrise. I can still smell the damp ocean scent that soaked into everything, the chenille bedspreads she liked, the way the floorboards creaked, and the warmth of her hand holding mine. She died when I was four, it’s amazing to me how vivid these memories are. Almost all of my early childhood memories are of my Nanny.
I can close my eyes imagine the window and view from above you wrote about. What a great memory it is for you. It sounds as if it was an important time, a cherished part of your childhood. Thank you for sharing.
Reading your writing is turning on the movie I didn’t know I wanted to watch, but it’s become a craving of mine, to walk with you. Thank you for this positioning. I was on my toes peering out the window with you, but when I turned around, we were pouring strawberry frosting over strawberry bread in a high-rise apartment in Naples, Italy. What I know is my bayou panhandle Florida mother was barely not a teenager and she’d married a solider and had three babies in five years. But what I can remember is the waxy, pink frosting, her brunette perm, and the soft, cold Formica countertop.
This is a lovely piece of a faded puzzle. In my 80th year, I remember at four reaching for the screen door and being stung by a wasp resting in the shade on the underside of the handle. We were both shocked and both felt betrayed by our seemingly benign surroundings. But at least -- unlike the unlucky insect -- I had a mother nearby. She came quickly and held me and made a poltice from one of my father's cigarettes and hummed the pain away.
What a perfect memory. Thank you.
Poor wasp. Lucky you.
I love this.
Thank you, Bar.
remember that when I yelled it sounded like mom-may, not mommy. Such a weird detail to remember when so much else is forgotten.……
I remember thinking my mom’s name was sweet pea, cuz that’s what Daddy called her….lol. I am 65, and my sweet mama is 86… her name is actually Loretta….lol You are doing great. Write on dear one, Di
I love that your father caalled your mother Sweet Pea.
This piece turned me into a 5 year old with perpetually skinned knees. For me, Mommy was for close communication, Mom-may was for longer distances or if I got no response. I love how this was part of your memory and how it triggered my own.
Me too.
I love this, Abigail. I have written a little about my own childhood, but your focus on the very earliest memories is a path I'd like to try. My father too went to war, and I have this vague memory of watching from some high platform as the train he was on went away. This was Dallas, and the war was evident in our major airport, with jeeps and other military presence there. It was Love Field, and yes that place carries the memory of JFK on that terrible day. Thank you for your evocative and fine writing.
Thank you. Loving your writing too.
I remember being 4 years old and looking out the window as my older sister, age 5, went off to school. Oh, how I wished I was old enough to go too.
Good to hear your voice as always, Abby! I am experiencing the same thing…this patchwork memory…yet going down the trail to the past the funniest things do pop up out of nowhere and of course I have to write them down or they flee back into darkness. Then there are writings and poems…I found two more the other day just checking to see if I could still access old work, and up they popped like ghosts tattooed with the past. You’re onto something, too, about “not knowing” how to comfort a parent or another adult or even respond to something too big to fathom.
So glad you are posting again. It's strange what we remember. Doris Doerrie, a German filmmaker and writer, recently wrote that she begins her writing workshops with the question - what did the floor in your childhood room look like. I don't remember. It was probably carpet. I would remember wood under my feet. But I remember the carpet in the living room was grey and scratchy and I'm sure my father picked it, because it was very fashionable and he was into all the new "design" of the 60ties.
A Mickey Mouse figure. There was a Micky mouse figure in my room. That I remember. Maybe only because there are photographs.
And tissue wet with tears (my mother) stuck between the sitting and the leaning part of the green sofa in the living room.
When I close my eyes I remember the smell of tears. Autsch.
Do you need anything more than mom may? It is a world unto itself.
Your story has brought about some memories for me that I may use to write about this week because they involve my dad.
What a wonderful writer you are!