by Ethan Johnson
November 27, 2007

Being that this isn't a blog, I/we don't get tagged to participate in memes very often. However, the long arm of the meme taggers has reached me, and because Beth asked, here's my contribution to society. As told on Beth's post about this meme:

I have to post my earliest memory that is:
#1 Clear enough to include three details, then
#2 Give my age, and
#3 Pass it along to some other folks.

To the memory-tron! (Trumpet flourish)

I'm going to build up to the exciting climax that is my EARLIEST MEMORY™.

First runner-up memory:

I don't remember how old I was (verrrry young - no older than 6), but I was being quizzed by some high school or college-aged guys with vocabulary flash cards. I started reading at a verrrrry young age (3? 4?) and was always reaching for the harder words, the more sophisticated material, and so forth. This affected my speech patterns at the time, when a bit later (grade school) I told a friend that I was "purchasing some gum" over the weekend. Later this would be condensed to "I got gum." Anyway, these guys were visibly shocked that someone my age was not only blowing through the vocab cards that were vexing the other kids, but doing so in a way where I acted like I'd seen it all before. Two words messed me up. The first was "grocer". I said "grock-er". Correction noted. The second was the real killer, and a word I had never seen in print: Chameleon. I gave it a shot and said "cham-uh-lee-on". Razz. My quizzer did the old "well, someone needs to study his vocabulary words" thing. I think his expectation/assignment was to teach vocabulary, and thus seemed both amazed and somewhat put off that there was very little to teach - to me. Other kids needed more assistance.

Side note: My Dad loves to tell the tale of my prodigious reading acumen, where I'd apparently shock and amaze family friends and relatives who said they'd read me a story at bedtime by snatching the book away and telling them, "no, I'm going to read you a story." And I did. This web site, explained.

Second runner-up:

This is totally cheating, since this happened later (I was 9 or 10), but hey, my memories, my article. I have been meaning to recount this in print, so here's my shot. Long ago, the apartment complex I lived in was separated from the neighboring complex (we called it "the trace", even though it was never called that officially) by a cornfield, since removed. The evil denizens of "the trace" would rumble through the field and start up corn fights. If they didn't start one, we did, but guaranteed at least once a year, corn fights were going down between the apartment kids. One year, some new guy blasted out of the field and wanted to get into fistfights, not just corn throwing. He chased after us, and I froze, which allowed him to get a clean shot off right at my glasses, breaking the lens away from the frame and into my eye socket. Result: Broken glasses and a nifty black eye. Did I cry? Did I pout? Hell no! This was around the time when KISS was popular, and I played air guitar on the playground, shouting to nobody in particular, "I'm Paul Stanley!" It was arguably the most fun I have ever had with a black eye. At least until it wore off.

Third:

This was pretty defining for me. 1976. Summer. The year before we moved to Illinois and everything changed. Some woman was blowing bubbles from the second floor balcony of our apartment building in West Allis, Wisconsin. I was running around in the yard trying to jump up and pop the low-flying bubbles. I made a swan dive for one, sure I'd catch it. I dove instead into an upturned bicycle fork, minus the wheel. I gored my forehead and my chest. I ran screaming upstairs to my Mom, covered in blood and holding my white whiffle ball. I needed 13 stitches all told, 7 for my forehead and 6 for my chest. At 7 years old, it wasn't lost on me that I bled more from my head than my heart. (The gash on my chest was pretty minor, but still.) I still bear the scars on my forehead and chest, albeit more faintly these days.

The important detail: I never, ever dove into a swimming pool after that incident. My Dad told me that my inability to dive into a pool is one of his greatest failures. (??!!) The other was not being able to make a loud HONNNK when I blew my nose, but I'm happy to say that after several doctor visits I am now honking like a foghorn. Does my Dad notice? No. Fine, see if I dive, ever.

The winnah:

I was no older than 2. I crawled out of my crib one night and started yanking tissues out of the box and tossing them on the floor in a pile. I knew the words for the first few (one, two, three), then I recall making "sounds" as I did it but thinking inwardly that they were being piled up sequentially. I lacked the vocabulary to express it, but I knew that there was a pattern or sequence, and one day I'd learn the words. My parents were annoyed but philosphical that I could already clamber up and down from my crib, and I'd have to be moved to something else. They had no idea what possessed me to make a pile of tissues on the floor late in the night.

Conclusion (Relaxation and Savasana):

As of this writing, I am 38 (ever closer to 39). I'm not sure why this is salient in the context of the meme, other than perhaps to wow the audience with amazing recall, or to scare one into thinking one has early onset Alzheimer's. I guess if my earliest memory was from last week, that's a red flag for sure.

I suppose I have to draw some sort of meaning from these experiences. Well, one is, I was a freak about reading back when, and am not into books these days. I do read books from time to time, but have largely migrated to online feeds and surfing. I find books to be tedious at times, however the really good stuff endures (and endears). I used to read books merely because I could. Now I'm a bit more selective, for better or worse. By contrast, Marlena reads by the truckload. Mostly "trash", but she's into it.

When life hands you a black eye, play air guitar and idolize rock stars.

I got along not diving into pools just fine, thanks. If anything, a friend of mine taught me how to jump nearly end-to-end (across the width) of the pool when we played "shark" (a form of tag). Diving could get you past the shark a few times, but it was a great way to get tagged underwater and lead to being held under. Whereas the huge splash and distance by a well-landed jump meant the safety of the other side of the pool, above sea level. Depending on the agility of the shark(s), you could get tagged in mid-air. (If you were tagged by the "shark", you had to join the shark in the middle of the pool and try to tag other kids until one player was left untagged.)

Finally, not only is my earliest memory a "showpiece" for me, in that it involved a crib and limited language skills, so it had to be pretty stinking early. Beats remembering childbirth or something.

As for who to tag, eh, I'm going to do the famous "it's yours if you want it." I don't know who-all reads this site these days, and some who do don't have blogs or similar. If you want to share your memories, let me know where to find your contribution or use the comments box below to play along (while available). We return now to the present day, already in progress. <EM>