First memory

First Memory

from Open Road:  a life worth waiting for 

           

This is my first memory. 

It's the summer of my fourth year.  A huge truck rumbles in the driveway while I sit on the front lawn eating Oreos, twisting them apart and scraping my teeth along the white icing.  I watch my parents direct the movers who carry furniture and boxes into the truck.  Mr. and Mrs. Sanders, our next door neighbors, are nearby, watching over my sisters and me.   I'm vigilant as I observe the countless boxes that contain all of our things, wondering, "What does it mean to move away?"

It's not until we say our good-byes and I climb into my mother's car that I begin to understand.  We are leaving our little house on Richland Street in Maumee, Ohio -- forever.

"Say 'bye-bye' to the house, Katie," Mom chimes. 

I look over my shoulder and squint at its rapidly retreating silhouette.  "How come?"

"We won't live there anymore."

"Why?"

"Because we're moving to Virginia for Daddy's work."

"Why?"

"Because that's where he needs to be."

"Where's all our stuff?"

"In the van...I told you."

That night we stay in a motel and moments after being tucked into bed, the movers knock softly on our door so they can wish my sisters and me a good night.  They are kind and friendly.  I'm glad they will protect all of my toys, books, and dolls which are right there in the parking lot, tucked away in boxes we will soon open in our new house.

 Wherever we will live next, I feel more secure knowing that all of my safety nets are coming with me.

Transitions have been a part of my life since I was young.  It seems I was destined for perpetual movement since I was born in the heart of the Year of the Fire Horse.   September 9, 1966.  If my birth date is inverted, it's still the same: 9-9-66.  Either way, I'm destined to be a free spirit, uninhibited by the mores of society, by the constraints of that which my culture believes to be normal or desirable.  Like many Fire Horses, I'm independent, hardworking, and fierce enough to bounce back from all types of adversity.          

I can also be incredibly reclusive and often sensitive to over-stimulating environments, desperately needing to escape the deafening echo of senseless noise.  Having lived alone for more than twenty-five years, I know how to keep my own counsel -- particularly when surrounded by the safety nets of my books, gardens, and a variety of creative projects. 

Mine was once a life of contradictory energies, a consistent push and pull of simultaneously wanting two incongruous things, all the while recognizing that, in the end, neither is completely satisfying.  In midlife, I've come to understand the incredible power in finding the reality that is somewhere in-between.

I came to it naturally as I was born into a generation caught between the conflicting mores of the fifties and the revolution of the women's movement.  No wonder I sometimes find myself longing to have it both ways...the proverbial "having my cake and eating it, too."  Only this time, after decades of self-discovery, I now intentionally long for the decadence of a homemade vegan chocolate soufflé instead of a boxed Betty Crocker mix. 

I've learned that quality transcends quantity...every time.

My mother loved to tell a story about my sister's kindergarten woes.  An older boy waited for her at the bus stop and teased her mercilessly.  Sometimes she would come home crying; on other days, Patricia refused to ride the bus to school.  I gave her suggestions about how to get him to stop, but with no success.  One day, I asked Mom if I could go with Patricia to the bus stop and show her how to take care of the problem. 

"Don't worry, Mommy," I said.  "I'll make him stop."

When I came back home, I told my mother that the boy would never bother Patricia again. 

"What happened?" she asked.  "What did you do?"

"I told him to stop teasing my sister," I said bluntly.  "Then I kicked him in the shins."

Sure enough, from then on, Patricia could ride the bus, free from the taunts of the little boy who must have been terrified I would do worse than kick him if he ever dared to bother my sister again. 

Yes, I was sassy and I was naughty.  But I was also in need of the assertive protection I provided for my older sister.  Ironically enough, as the years went by, it was Patricia who would taunt and tease me.  And when kicking her in the shins merely earned me a spanking, I used other ways of protecting myself.

I became a master at disappearing.

Even now I love the shielding harbor of my home.  The silence of my yoga studio.  The peacefulness of an early morning spent in the garden.  When I am alone I am safe.  Safe to be all that I am...all that I've unearthed...all that still needs tilling. 

I can be more than a Fire Horse. 

More than my mother's strong-willed daughter. 

More than what this world can see.

I can be free.

Circa 1971, in the kitchen of the Richland Street house.