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Tuesday, May 02, 2006 First Memory It never fails. Whenever I ask someone what their first memory was it’s something negative. Sometimes horrible but almost always bad. Maybe this isn’t true for you. Hopefully it isn’t. But that just means I haven’t personally asked you that question yet. Because if I did, I’m sure it would’ve been something bad. Understand? One guy I know vividly remembers being left at a hotel at the age of two by his biological parents. Days later, the hotel staff caught on and began to care for him. Some time after, in his small town, a local couple who was unable to have children simply took him in and adopted him. As far as he’s concerned, they were his parents. But that did not make up for the fact that he’d been abandoned. Another guy I know tells me his first memory was at his grandparents’ house. Vomiting. My first memory isn’t awful, but it’s certainly not a *pleasant* first memory. It is not one of being rocked to sleep, or read to, or of lullabies or ponies or bunnies or pastel colors. My first memory is of a fight. It happened on my first birthday. My mother was shocked when she found this out. Who remembers their first birthday? (I guess I do.) I was a feisty one-year-old. Nancy was my cousin, and was two or three years older than me (still is, I guess). This, of course, made her pretty much an adult in my eyes. She was FOUR TIMES MY AGE! For my birthday, she (and by that I mean of course, her parents) had given me one of those blow up cylinders, with a picture of a clown painted on it. At the bottom was a pocket of sand, which meant that every time it was hit, the thing would pop back up, with that evil grin. Eventually, I’d get fed up and just pin him to the ground. I’d be damned if some puny clown ACTUALLY full of air would beat me. And if all else failed, I’d just let the air out of him. It was by far my favorite toy, for years. I also attribute my complete lack of fear of clowns to this toy. I learned at an early age – it’s dead easy to kick a clown’s ass. Plus, I never did see Stephen King’s It. Anyway, I’d just received this fine gift, and sat on the brown and tan linoleum floor of the kitchen, completely fixated on punching the stuffing out of this stupid (yet strangely wonderful) clown. And I was definitely winning. And then came Nancy. Nancy, my 4-year-old-almost-adult cousin. And she just took it. Like it was HERS! I’d never actually HAD a birthday, but I knew how they worked. People gave you stuff, just for being born. And you sat in your high chair and threw cake around and shoved it around your face, deftly avoiding your actual mouth. Let the record show, even at the age of one, I was not a fan of chocolate cake. I prefer, and preferred then, white cake. But mostly, it was about getting stuff. Like clown punching bags. And once you GET it, the people can’t take it BACK. It is rightfully YOURS. And no one had seemed to tell Nancy that it was way better to give than to receive, hootch. A shoving match ensued (I told you I was feisty). I’m not entirely sure, but I think I made her cry. What a whiner. But that’ll teach her to take my clown. I’m the only one that gets to kick that clown’s ass. I later became a blackbelt in Clown Ass Kicking, being the youngest ever to win the National Championship, at the age of 2 years and 7 months. If you are a clown, and we ever meet in a dark alley, I’d just like you to know I have no less than 24 years experience in making you suffer. If all else fails, I’ll just let the air out of you. |
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"In the city you will find that the poor and the broken are often much, much more open to the idea of Gospel grace and much more dedicated to its practical outworkings than you are." (Tim Keller) | |
