How much can a baby really think....

My earliest memory is, a bit of a remarkable one in my eye. Few believe me, including myself at times. It's my now passed Grandmother who vows it must be true. And as she was the closest thing I can compare to a saint I believe her. At any rate, I will present both memory and facts and you yourself can be the judge.



I remember the room. Fair sand-like colored carpet. Light colored walls. A bed covered in a knitted fashion material. A dark wooden chest at the end of the bed. A window set to the right side. I remember the chest being superior to me in overall size because I'd bang on the top to hear the sound it'd make. I was bored and maneuvering around. I say maneuvering because I remember loving the carpet. So soft to crawl and walk on. I very much loved feeling it with my hands and grabbing at it.



I remember it was during the day and the sun beaming through the window. Calling me to it like a moth to a flame. How true that metaphor is because when I reached the window and pulled up to peer out, I was shocked with pain in my eyes and my face on fire. Making me immediately drop down. After a moment or so, I remember thinking, that's just the sun. I wasn't in real pain, it was just the heat of the sun. I was a little more then, annoyed (?), that the sun was trying to prevent me from peering out the window. With set determination I stood again and peered out. More carefully and prepared this time....



I won't lie, it hurt. The sun was SO hot on my face and neck. My eyes, blue frail eyes, were stunned initially. I remember fighting this powerful urge to give in, shield myself, turn away. But I didn't. My eyes finally adjusted and I peered out. In our terms, what I saw before me was a tear drop like road that had a decent size of grass/yard in the middle and houses along side mine expanding around it going out. I noticed the first half of the tear drop road on the left of me was a rich shiny black color. The other half to the right was a light gray color. Directly in the middle was a large machine and men around it. They were repaving it. Or, in my mind, they were making it new again.



I marveled at what I had discovered and scolded the sun to try and keep me from it. Then I thought, wait, how is it I know that that's a road, that those are men, and that that machine is making a new road? How do I know all this? I've never been shown it before and I'm too little to just think of it. And then I thought, wait, why am I standing here debating what I should or should not know based on my age OR analyzing at the fact I'm now analyzing me analyzing!? I dropped, thought, this just got too much and too weird for me, and left the window. I don't know what I did after that. Maybe found a toy or went back to feeling the soft carpet. It was truly a comfy carpet. One that you could nap on for hours. I have other, more vague memories of that home. I remember there were stairs but have no memory of being on them myself. I remember seeing a stand up pool in the back through patio doors and water splashing.



Now, here are the facts. I am the youngest of three. My mother took us and left my father when I was 3 months old. We went to live with my Grandmother and Grandfather in their home located in NV. We lived there till I was nearly 10 months old. At which point we moved to a cabin owned by my Aunt and Uncle up in Montana for a year, then we moved back to NV. However, while away my Grandparents sold that home and got an apartment.



Some many.....many many years later while going through memories at a family gathering and I brought that one up of peering out the window. I really really wanted to know which home that was. You see, we ended up moving EVERY year till I was 10 years old. At which point we still moved to a different home each year, but atleast stayed in the same state and around the same general area that allowed me to stay in the same school. So for me, my memories are plentiful and easily kept in order based on what state I lived in defining the year therefore my age.



My Grandmother could not believe my story of the window and the tear drop driveway. She kept asking me for more details. At which point what few more I could offer only made her eyes widen with set certainty. It was their home they had sold after we moved out to live in the cabin. The only time I was there in that home was after my mother took us and left our father. I was 10 months old when I left.



Now just one more fact. After doing some research, it seems that going through traumatic experiences as a child (or even baby in my opinion) will cause the memory to kick start. My one last fact is something that happened in that house in the time I lived there that I didn't remember. Evidently my brother and sister put me down the laundry shoot from the 2nd floor. By miracle or luck, at that same time my Grandmother was in the basement getting ready to do the laundry. She shared this memory emphasizing that it was very unlike her to have such a large pile of clothes heaped at the bottom of the shoot. As she was a very devoted Catholic and distinguished lady overall I have no doubt in that. But with us moving in the chore had piled up.



If I had gone down that shoot 10 min earlier or just a min later I would of died that day. My Grandmother said she heard something odd sounding and suddenly saw me fly down from the shoot that stopped shortly after the ceiling and into the clothes. With her heart in her throat she rushed to the pile expecting to find me dead as I was making no sound. Instead I was completely unharmed, smiling, and upon being picked up I giggled. I think that is what kick started my...I don't know what you'd call it. To call it just memory would be like calling the sun warm. It was so much more.



I was very observant and analyzed things to extents that others didn't normally. My memories carry more detail then the average and more then average. I was the "young philosopher". Writing this makes me feel like I failed in life that I didn't complete college or have some.....professional job. But in a way that makes me feel lucky. I have yet to shine at my brightest. I have yet and more to give and share. And I notice that when people do shine at their brightest they forget what got them there and just as important, what it is in life that really matters. So for that I'm lucky in that I remain unaffected by the driven stereotypes and material purpose that so many others have and do. I love the little things. I wish for more for my family, but I carry the caution that too much will cause them to lose sight in what really matters in life. And to always carry that view, that focus, has got to be one of a parents vital roles to instill in their children.