My Earliest Memory

My earliest memory is not of my father or my mother. When you think back you hope that it would be. As I have gotten older (and, I am not old – thank you) I find that memories are locked away in a series of file cabinets stacked and scattered around the inside edge of my scull. When thinking back, sometimes I am working my way through a store room of cabinets, pushing aside the cobwebs, or moving storage boxes so I can open the drawer.

Often I find the cabinet drawer locked or stuck, and I tug sometimes softly and other times hard. Sometimes the drawer opens and the details of the memory flood the room. Other times the drawer never opens and I stand there holding the fragment of the memory on a slip of paper the librarian gave me.

Ansel Adams was a great photographer. Noteworthy was his ability to bring his subject to striking life in a black and white print. He didn’t use fancy equipment and he didn’t “morph” the subject to fit his idea of how the final product should look.

My earliest memory is in black and white. On the scrap of paper there was a single thought. Pulling on the cabinet drawer brought out more detail; black and white and still quite vague. One piece of color showed through, so parts of the memory are a composite.

When we moved to Seattle I was just over 2 years old. Dad and mom had rented an apartment in the Fauntleroy area of West Seattle. I can still see “California Avenue” as it tapers down toward the water from the top of the hill. If the apartment building still exists, I think I could drive there. It was a two story brick structure, quite plain and boxy. The color of the brick was a kaleidoscope sandy color with some speckles darker than others, but overall lighter rather than darker. It looked much like a Motel 6 with bricks.

The rest of the memory is black and white. We had a neighbor named Mary. She was older. I recall “visiting” her at her first floor apartment which opened to a large grassy area. I remember her white colored hair as she sat in a chair on the sidewalk; in the shadow of the balcony above; her apartment door opened to the background. While I can’t see in, I know I have been there. My mom has too.

I don’t think Mary had a wheelchair, but she had only one leg. I hope Mary enjoyed my visits as much as I enjoyed visiting her in my black and white memory.

- Craig