First Memories

Leaving, for a moment, the world of controversy, religion and politics and going back to a simpler time. There I am in my playpen, calling out to the world at about age what? 18 months? Younger? Well a lot younger than now, that's for sure.

Whatever was I thinking?

Reminds me of the question often asked of me, and by me, "What's your first memory?" I read somewhere that what we think are our memories are not always so. I think it was in connection with a dire subject, repressed memories of traumatic events. The jury remains out on whether what seems to have been repressed really was created by the power of suggestion, or leading questions, as the case may be.

But in the circumstance of what might be fond or interesting memory of old, of a time before we could talk, or walk, or pick up a spoon, it is rather lovely to think about.

You think of yours. I'll tell you a couple of mine. In the picture there, in the corner, there is this large stuffed poodle. Her name was "Fifi". We lived in a five floor multi-part brick walk up on Townsend Avenue, as I think I have said before, just about three or four blocks north? (my directions always were lousy) of the Jerome Avenue El, 175th Street stop, and about four or five blocks south of the Grand Concourse. I can't place things exactly, but there was a park nearby, closer probably to Mt. Eden Hospital, where I made my first appearance, with trees, and swings and flag-ish stone, and most importantly metal swings that held you safely in when you were too young to hold yourself in place. But I am getting ahead of the earliest memory. I wasn't going about in swings quite about this time when I was hanging onto the edge of the playpen holding myself up. Anyway, 1596 Townsend, brass mailboxes, brass railing downstairs and wood as you went up, black and white tile floors. Ours was a one bedroom apartment, $50.00 a month. I don't know where that playpen was, I am guessing the living room. The crib, though, that was by one of two windows in the bedroom, which until I was old enough to have a bed, I shared with my parents. The cat my mother had long before I came along, already about 9 or 10 years old guarded me, wherever I was and spent time in playpen and crib, hissing at anyone other than my mother or father who might come near me. My Irish grandmother, opined in brogue accented English that the cat surely would smother me. All of this I was told later. This part I don't remember.

But I seem to remember that, like most near toddlers, ready to explore the world, I did climb out of the crib early one morning. I seem to remember my triumph at conquering what seemed a great height. I think I could walk, but I did not. I went out on hands and knees into the living room and saw, the large yellow eyed cat, one in a series of not friendly creatures only my mother could really tame, was on the chair that she decimated with her claws. She watched me approach, paws folded under her ample chest, still as stone. I seem to remember, "that's close enough". The visual ends.

In the next visual, I am about two or three. I have a bed now, in the same corner space in front of one of the two windows in the bedroom, which by the way, is painted a dark brown, with beige heavy drapes surrounding the walls and covering the only closet and a series of home made shelves that are used as closet space. On the side by the door that goes to the hall leading to the living room there are library shelves, full of books. The bed is some kind of custom made, I can't say whether my father put it together or they bought it somewhere. It is about twin size. It is more a big piece of wood, stained brown, with fifty-ish lava lamp shaped legs, tipped with some kind of brass-ish covering. The mattress is really covered foam rubber. It is comfortable enough, but it is not like any bed I had ever seen or ever had later in life. I am guessing my mother designed it, and my father brought it into being. It is very feng shui to the eye, this at a time, when nobody ever heard of feng shui.

Fifi has survived to whatever age I am. While I am on the bed, she is propped on the window sill. I may be having a conversation with her. I was an only child. I amused myself readily, and easily with my stuffed friends, Mrs. Chang, a stuffed angora cat, being the earliest along with Fifi. I think my father was in the room with me, and perhaps my mother. Their bed was still there, I think. A real bed. Not long after they would trade a real bed for a Castro Convertible in the living room to give me privacy.

I may have made a point with Fifi and as I touched her, she went out the fourth window to the back of the building. The alley of our building faced another, very much a "Rear Window" sort of view. When you called out the window, there was an actual echo because of the building across, and not that far across. Wow, as I write, the memories flood. I want to digress, but not this entry. I think when a stuffed loved one goes out a window, reality is not quite distinct from fantasy, and I was horrified that my white fluff paymate had fallen to the concrete below. This may have been the first time that my father was rescuer. He sped downstairs to get my toy and friend. I don't know, it being what, like 1955 ish that anyone would have stolen it, but Fifi would be dirty, though not bruised, and maybe someone would see her and think her abandoned. I heard his voice from all the floors down, assuring me that Fifi was safe, and retrieved. So much I must be imprinting on a flash of remembrance. How much true? One thing is certain. In that moment, my life was happy and safe.