where the writers are

my earliest memory blog

It's like this: I was waiting for her. Again. The frustration was killing me. I think I cried. Maybe I wailed. I felt lost, alone, abandoned.

This is all true.

In the summer of 1961, 2 or 3 months shy of my second birthday, I was with my family on vacation on Cape Cod.

First Memory

 

Rain pouring outside the car

My daddy changing the tire

  I am two and the gray Smith Corona typewriter case yawns empty in the middle of the floor inviting me like all small open things.

What I remember first--crying about a doll I left outside in the backyard--doesn't make that memory the best memory.  It's not a memory I go back to and hold and stare at, thinking about time and

Hard white winter sun streamed through the bay window, washing the big high-ceilinged room with glaring light.

It was unseasonably hot.

That must have been the reason my grandmother walked d

                                        Ice Cream and Water Fountains

The author, at right, with his siblings, a cousin, and his maternal grandmother, a great southern lady