Moments

[la_belle_laide]

I guess I've probably mentioned a few times that I have a really good memory. Actually it's a bit more than just "good." I can vividly recall things in ridiculous detail from my early childhood. I think it's because I spend a lot of time thinking about these things, and always have. I suppose I've always liked being here, and collecting moments. I've kept a diary since I was able to write. My Dad gave it to me, a little one with a lock on it. It's covered in scribbles about grade school, my Dad's band practice, things like that. But it's actually stuff outside of my diary that I remember the most, and the most clearly. And I remember them with all senses, too. (People reading Qualia: I guess this is where Professor Leander's "memories are like the present" issue comes from. It's sort of like what I do, only amped up to fictional levels.)

Tonight I had this one specific memory that comes to me once in a while on nights like tonight, and I mentioned it to my Mom after we watched Family Guy at her house. That led to me thinking of more things from my childhood and rambling about those moments. Then I thought, well you know, I should write this in my LJ.

They don't mean anything to anyone but me, and I probably can't really put them into words that will do them justice—me, the noveliste. I try, though.

The memory I had tonight was one that springs up on me on summer nights that are cool like this one. I don't know what triggers it, exactly. I don't know if it's crickets or the tree frogs, or a smell in the air, or the moon and stars being positioned just so. It's a really small memory, too.

I'm about 5. Mom, Dad and I are leaving the house of my Dad's two friends, Eric and Virginia, or "Big E and Ginny." I'm half asleep and Dad is carrying me through the mudroom as they say good night. There are a few steps down; their house has lots of trees around it. Everyone had sat around this little nook, me in the corner falling asleep on the bench. I fall asleep in the car, and when I wake up we're passing a sign with a big Z that means we're almost home. I think of Zest soap. Dad is talking about the number of an exit on the LIE. Then, Dad is carrying me through the yard. For some reason we're in the back yard by the side door and I'm looking at the trees.

And that's the whole memory. But it's a really nice memory because I'm happy to be home and something nice is going on. I'm not clear on what it is; I'm just in a good mood. I like the weather, or something.

I told this to Mom tonight and she says that the big, lighted Z was a sign on a business that used to be "Seven Zs." (Which was still around even about 15 years ago, but with no lighted sign.) And as for the number of the exits, that year they had added two more exits to the LIE so that ours was no longer the last. She guesses that's what they were talking about.

It's very weird, really eerie, how completely I can still go back to that night and really be there, as if it never stopped happening.

***
Grandma's wake.

My paternal Grandma died when I was about 9 months old, or maybe a year? It's 1973, I guess. I can understand certain things I guess, though honestly I don't recall what I did or didn't understand in terms of words. I do remember feeling as a child, always, that I was my own little microcosm – obviously not in so many words, but that everything somehow had to do with my world. The memory is brief, though. Mom is holding me and I'm looking down at my Grandma. She's wearing blue and it looks like there are sparkles around her, like stars, but I don't question why this is. I assume she's asleep and there's some connection there; for days before this everyone has been saying "wake." I mean, "wake," "wake," right, it only makes sense to a toddler or pre-toddler, so this must be a big moment. But then nothing happens. I ask ask Mom when Grandma's going to wake up and she says she's not going to.

That's the entire memory. When I was 16 or so I asked my Mom about this. She was a little surprised that I could remember it. Grandma had been wearing a blue dress with a shawl that had some kind of sequin pattern or glitter on it, or maybe some kind of shiny material. I did ask her when Grandma was going to wake up.

Somewhere there's a pic of Grandma holding me in her hospital bed, her last grandchild of like over nine thousand. (And then nine thousand more after she passed. I have a lot of cousins, some I don't even know.) I should dig that picture up. It's in black and white.


***
The moon out the window.

I had to be at least two in this memory. I'm in my childhood bedroom, looking out the southern window and I can see the moon through the trees. I keep staring at it, thinking that Grandma must be in there. (She's gone by this time and I had only known her briefly, but I still talk to her.) Here, it can only turn into a dream because obviously it could not have happened. But I can't tell the dream from reality. All of a sudden I realize there's something in my bedroom closet. Then my paternal grandfather—still alive at this time and smelling of cigars—tells me that there's a secret room in there. I go into the closet and there's a mouse hole, with all sorts of things from around the house, particularly my dog Trouble's collar. (I had a ton of those "About Me" books with my name and my cousins' names in them, and one of them depicted a scene like this. You'd send away for them at the mall—or my parents did, obviously—and tell them the names you wanted in them, even pet names. Like a madlib for your family. And in one of those books there was a mouse that hoarded things from my house – among them, Trouble's collar.) But then I actually go into the mouse hole, and beyond the closet is the woods outside of the house, and the moon that I had been looking at through my window. And then I start to talk to Grandma.

And that's all I remember of that.


***

A field of dandelions.

This one is in the old house, so I'm under two years of age. I've managed to climb onto something to look out of my bedroom window. (This is not as unlikely as some people may think. I was a really tall toddler and I got into and onto lots of different things.) It's warm, daylight, and the grass is very green, and the dandelions very yellow like little suns. The air smells like the grass has been mowed, and there's a breeze with the beach smell. Music is playing (it usually is,) but I don't know the song. I'm wearing a frilly dress with ruffling on it that itches, and I'm waiting to see Dad.

It's a very short memory, really just an endless moment.


***
Jaws and the beanbag doll.

The movie Jaws came out in June of 1975, so I'm 3 and a half or so. My parents have taken me to the drive-in to see Jaws. This is the first time I've been to the movies. I start out in the front seat, but soon I don't like the screaming and I climb over into the backseat with my green beanbag doll with the plastic face. Once in a while I look through the windshield at the big screen, but it's boring and I keep going back to my world. I do like the big squares on the window—speakers--and I kind of want to touch them to see what they feel like. I'm squeezing the beanbag legs and arms between my fingers, poking the plastic face.

The thing I really remember about these early memories is that I'm not thinking about yesterday or tomorrow, or even "when is this going to be over" or "what happens next" or "what came before this?" It's just one endless moment. Maybe that's why I remember them so clearly.

Must be nice.



***
Red velvet and the noon alarm.
I must be closing in on two years old, because the house is being built and Mom is taking me to see The Property. But I don't see any Property; all I see is red sides and blue sky. I'm too warm. But I love love love the red sides, stretching out both hands to touch them, so fuzzy and dry and scratchy. So feely I can't quit, just scratch scratch scratch, and I love the red. There's so much of it.

Then the fire alarm goes off and I don't like it.

I mentioned this to my Mom a few years ago and she told me that she did used to walk with me at noon every day to look at the property she and Dad had bought, and see the frame of the house being built. And my carriage was blue on the outside and red velvet (or imitation) on the inside.

I have always hated the fire alarm and I still do, to this day. I used to think, for whatever reason, that fire trucks lived in my closet, and one day when the alarm went off they were all going to come blasting out of there.


***
It's called a procession.

Shortly after moving into The New House, I dreamed that all sorts of things were going down the block. I'm looking out my western bedroom window where I can see the avenue. And first some cars go by. Then a boot, a hat stand, a street light (no streetlights on this road until the late 80s,) a fire truck (DREAD) and some more cars. I turn around to see Dad standing behind me. He says, "This is called a procession."

I don't know what that dream pertains to, other than that perhaps I'd heard my Dad describing one at some point and formed this image that stayed with me in a dream. I know that some of his cop buddies passed away while I was young, so maybe that was the context in which he said the word? I have no idea.


***
George and Georgette.

I'm much older in this one, maybe 8 or so. Dad has been away upstate in Lake George, probably doing a concert. Sometimes I would go with him for the weekend, and sometimes I'd stay home with Mom. This time I'd stayed home and it seemed a long time that Dad was gone. (Though it was probably only three days or something.) Dad had called the night before and said to me, "I picked up a little something for you. It's nothing big though, but I'll give it to you when I get home. Love you baby!"

So not only was Dad coming home, but he had a present.

He comes home late at night with his suitcase, and a blue stuffed vinyl dog; a dachshund. With glued-on paper eyes and a black nose. And on the side, the words, "LAKE GEORGE, NY".

I love it I love it I love it! I love stuffed animals and this is going to be part of my collection. I hug Dad and thank him. He asks what I'll name it and I tell him, "Well, George."

Then he and Mom go to their room so Dad can unpack his clothes. I'm standing alone in the kitchen, and all of a sudden the stuffed dog slips out of my grasp and thunks to the floor. For a second I'm totally shocked, staring at it thinking, "Did I just drop the stuffed dog that Dad brought home for me?"

I snatch it up and totally bust out crying, petting it frantically going, "I'm sorry George, I really like you, you're my favorite stuffie, I didn't mean to drop you!"

Never let it be said that I was issue free, even as a child.

The next time Dad went to Lake George, he brought back the same dog, only in pink. Georgette, naturally! I was so happy because they could be alike together.


***
I've cut the dickens out of my finger.

I'm about six years old, and we're spending the weekend at Gram and Gramp's house in Queens. It's pretty cold and pretty late, but I stay up to watch Saturday Night Live with Mom and Dad. Bill Murray is cute but not as cute as Johnny Carson, who is my biggest crush. I've watched him from this place, too.

But tonight it's Saturday Night Live. We're all on a mattress on the floor, me between Dad and Mom, watching a TV that is also on the floor. A section comes on with the guy dressed like a lady cutting up a turkey for Christmas, talking in a high stupid voice, which is hilarious for a few seconds, until he cuts his finger. Oooooh, this is not funny anymore. In fact this is so far past "not funny" that I'm really upset now. Then all this blood starts spurting out of him. My Dad thinks this is high-lar-ious but I really, utterly fail to see the humor. This is gross. This is scary.

And I'm totally off watching Saturday Night Live for a while now, because what if they do something like that again? No thanks.

Fortunately, I eventually got over it. You know, until it started to suck again in the 80s.



***
Stolen ice cubes.

Pre-verbal, pre-ambulatory, crawling around Gram and Gramp's kitchen in Queens with my cousin Chrissie, same age as me. We love ice cubes. Ice cubes are the goal. Gram, Gramp, Mom, Dad, Aunt Lori sitting around a table, everyone smoking except Dad, talking their loud talk and laughing. Me and Chrissie, crawling to the fridge over the gritty tiles of the floor. Cat hairs all over our palms.

I know logically, now, that we couldn't talk, but we actually are talking here. How are we going to get the ice cubes? Without Them seeing us. They have to be stolen. We have to reach. How do we get up there? Too funny! Laughing! Hysterical laughing! Someone give us an ice cube!

Chrissie doesn't remember this, but my Mom does. She says we were obsessed with ice chips, and that we used to babble to each other, babtalk that seemed meaningless, but seemed to mean something to us. "Twin language," she called it.

As we grew up together, Chrissie and I actually did invent various languages and alphabets together, just for giggles. One of our alphabets included a panty-shaped glyph. I have no idea why but we did it on purpose.



***
Honeysweet.

Again, older here, too, maybe 8 or so. My Dad has this "frog-finder" tool, which, I would not understand until years later, is actually just a broom with the bristles gone. It's black, with a hollow bell-shape at the bottom. He pushes it through the tall grass alongside the foundation of the house, to flush out the endless amount of toads in the springtime. He does this so that he doesn't accidentally kill them with the wheedwacker.

TONS of toads one year, all living under the cement gutter that my Dad and Mom made. Huge fat ones and teeny baby ones. I ask Dad if I can keep one. "I guess," he says. "But you gotta feed it, give it water so it doesn't die."

Dad gets me an old coffee can that he's kept some nails in. It smells like metal and coffee. I stand by the garage, holding the squirming toad, waiting for him to finish cleaning it out. He rips up some grass, a rock and a stick, and stuffs them into the can, then pours a little water into it. "Not too much!" I caution him. "I don't want to drownd her."

"Put it in there," he says.

I place the toad into the jar and Dad covers it with the plastic top. Then he takes a screwdriver and starts to punch a hole in the top. "Wait," he says, "Take the frog out again. I don't want to accidentally kill it."

I retrieve my toad and watch as Dad punches holes in the top, a bunch of star-shaped openings. Then I put the toad back inside the coffee can.

"Her name is Honeysweet," I tell Dad. "What does she eat?"

"Bugs," he tells me.

So Dad continues with his yardwork, and I put Honeysweet's jar in the red wheelbarrow, while I go out hunting for bugs. What kind? Flies, waterbugs, crickets or what? I'd like to feed her green flies. I need a fly swatter. Where is it? Maybe someone else has one.

Dad continues his yardwork. I hang out with my friend Tracey from around the corner for an hour or so; surely we can find some bugs together.

The sun climbs.

You know the end of the story.

Tracey goes home, I go to give Honeysweet her bugs, and she's stone-dead, totally baked, practically smoking. The thing I remember most is that her tongue was stuck out. That stands out above almost everything else, even the smell of coffee cans, (which to me, to this day, means TOADS.)

I can't quite remember what happened after that, except I think that Mom or Dad buried her for me.

What I do remember is that the next day it was stupid hot for a Spring day, so hot that even shorts and a halter-top offered little relief. And so, feeling so much guilt about Honeysweet, I went to the side of the house, to the little nook between the fire-place and the fence, on the eastern side where the sun beat down until just past noon. I crammed myself into the little nook under the sun and made myself stay there, pretending it was a tin coffee can with a plastic cover, looking up to the star-shaped openings and totally baking, sweating my stupid face off.

This whole guilt/punishment thing; I could not get past it when I was a kid. And I didn't even go to Catholic school.


***
There are tons and tons or memories that I've stored like this. Some small like these moments, some much more significant, powerful ones, just as vivid (meeting my brothers and sister for the first time, my baby cousin's death, birthday parties, firsts and lasts, the day John Lennon was murdered and my hamster died on the same day,) and maybe someday I'll continue the task of writing those down, too – journaling things I never thought to journal when I was a child, but it didn't matter because they're somehow still with me, and I can call up every detail.

Strange, how memories work like that. And I don't mean to sound trite or anything, but it really is strange, how you can be outside of "now" like that, as if those moments never ended.

I guess, when I think about it, that's what Qualia is about after all.

No surprise, maybe.