Sunday Scribblings: When We Were Wee

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I don’t have terribly clear memories of my early childhood. My mind drifts over an impressionistic canvas of history, photographs and stories. My clearest memories of my younger years are the moments I found most terrible or embarrassing at the time, unfortunately, but I think it’s the same for most people. The hurtful memories stay clearer longer.

I have a sharp memory of travelling on the bus on my way to preschool, and dropping my copy of Beatrix Potter’s Mrs Tiggywinkle behind the seat just before my stop. I was a terribly shy child, and the terrifying prospect of having to ask someone to retrieve my book made me want to cry. I do remember crying, and worrying that I would have to leave the book behind. The memory stops there - I don’t know how the problem was resolved, but someone did retreive the book for me, and Mum tells me that when I returned home that day I declared that I hated the bus, I hated preschool, and I was NEVER going back again.

My grandmother told me a story from her own childhood, of a trip on the train, and the comic book that she had been able to buy as a special treat. When she stepped through the door into the carriage, the book slipped down into the gap between the platform and the train, and was lost. Decades later, she still remembers the crushing disappointment.

I hope that when I’m 80, I will retain my mosaic of memories - the feeling of mud squishing up between bare toes, my father singing me to sleep every night with a robust rendition of Gershwin’s Summertime, and my mother lying down with me to tuck me in, letting me hang on to her earlobe, a rather strange prelude to sleep that I enjoyed. The bittersweet memories of lost books and long ago tears are made sweeter when remembered as part of the canvas, creating an intricate mixture of colours and shadows. I would not want to forget them, although they occasionally make me feel sad for my younger self. But how silly to feel saddened by my own history, that cauldron of creation. I am so pleased with the final result, in all its richness, depth and wonder, I wouldn’t want to exchange those doleful rememberances for any others.

(for Sunday Scribblings)

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