A few weeks ago I asked you, dear readers, about your first memory. I wanted to know who might be reading my words and allow me to know how you might have grown up. No name, no address or anything really that you don’t want to say. It was just a self-imposed inquiry. I’ll tell you it was a surprise to me that my question would prompt such a response; I was overwhelmed.
So, just to let you know that I received all the emails, I want to reward all of the responses. So… I have made up a reward to all those that took time out of their busy day to help me in my quest for information and they will be receiving their gift soon, both of them.
Obviously, you can see that I was just killing space on a very large white piece of paper. While I would still like to know what your first memory was, I can understand your reticence. But know that I am interested, and would like to share my first memory.
I was born in a Maternity Home over on Seventh Street in Wasco, in the summer time oven of the San Joaquin Valley. I don’t remember that of course, but that is absolutely the first thing that happened to me. Well, that is cheating. I asked for the first thing you remember. My family at that time lived on a cotton and potato farm about 10 miles out of town. That’s where I was when the very first thing that I remember happened.
My two older brothers left me alone most of the time. Being six years older than me, they were a couple of the meanest boys I had ever met. We lived in a state of acceptance. That is, they knew they were my older brothers and they knew all I had to do was run and cry to my mom or dad. I wasn’t proud of my tears, they were just a method of survival. You use the weapon that’s dealt you.
I don’t want you to think that my magic was used only on my mom who, I was told later in life, thought I was pretty special. Doesn’t every mother think of their children like that? I was the baby, and even my dad would get involved if he thought I was being picked on too much. However, he was from a family of boys, so he figured a little rough housing was good for you. “Makes you tough!” I thought those two brothers walked on water! The coolest guys ever … except when I was crying to my mom.
If you have ever driven around Wasco in those days, you would wonder at all the wonderful crops being farmed. So much cotton it looked like it snowed the night, and enough alfalfa it seemed as though you could walk on it.
As you drove around, you would have noticed one other feature that may have surprised you. On almost every corner of all the roads you passed, you would see mounds of dirt encompassing something. You may have wondered what was in those mounds. These mounds were the summer playgrounds of children that lived on one of the many farms. They held back the world’s most precious liquid: water.
This was special water. Since agriculture chemicals were not used as often as we use them now. They didn’t exist. So these were where kids could gather on a hot summer day and wash off the dust of the fields. There were rich kids and poor kids and some I never did figure out. It didn’t matter. They played together. There are an awful lot of games that can be played in a reservoir with no grown-ups around to tell you how dangerous it was with no life guard.
The water that came out of the ground was clear and cold. No parents told their kids not to drink the water. That was part of my earliest memory. Because I couldn’t swim, my older bros had to carry me on their back out to where the sand that was pumped up with the water formed a little place where non-swimmers could laugh and splash. This was also where I would beg my older brothers to carry me out to the sandbar.
The other part of my earliest time was waving at my mom as I skipped over the rows where cotton was getting ready to show the fact that all was well in our little part of the world. We had a Collie named Bucky after my dad, who was Buck. Bucky would lay down in the shade of the pump house and keep watch on his charges. My Mom would watch me until I climbed over the side of the reservoir and disappeared from view. I never gave it much thought at the time, but that was my earliest memory.
We never knew what the time was. My brothers would swim over to where I was splashing at the edge of the water and dry themselves off. I was too young to realize that I would remember these earliest memories all my life. My brothers and I would climb up the bank and see our mom standing out by the clothesline waiting for her boys to get home.
Merry Christmas, my dear readers, to you and your loved ones.
God Bless.
