My earliest childhood memory: I have quite a few.
The first one was when I was about 3 or 4 and I had one of those blow up punching bags that looked like a clown. I was outside playing with it and my mom told me to be careful since we were playing with the water hose and not to bring it back in the house, but I didn’t listen and I tried to walk up the small metal black steps and fell down popping my punching bag. I cried so hard but my dad bought me a new one.
When I was about 5 and my granny and granddaddy took me to the circus at a local gym area and we were riding back in their old box Chevy when “Black Velvet” came on and I remember falling in love with it. I sang it on the way back home and when we got back my sister told on me and I was told that was a bad song and I shouldn’t listen to it because I didn’t understand the lyrics.
Then there are the memories of people passing away. There was this doorway between the kitchen and living room in the mobile home I grew up in and I remember when family members would go to the hospital and my mom would rush in the doorway stand there and let out an exacerbated sigh. We knew what it meant. I saw so much death growing up it became a normal part of my life. When my dad died my mom had some neighbors pick us up from school they were watching “White men cant jump.” (I still can’t watch it) and playing Sonic 3. My mom called and told them to bring us home. My dad had an accident at work and he was supposed to come home that day, but when I ran in the house the hospital bed was empty and my mom was crying. I didn’t really cry instead I got peroxide for a splinter in my finger. I’ve never accepted death well.
I realize my childhood memories aren’t exciting but rather sad.
I have other ones of playgrounds black swings that were so hot it would burn the back of your legs, metal slides, sports, fires metal buckets cut in half, roasting marshmallows, my granny (even when her alcoholism got bad) picking from the garden, chasing my cousin down with the water hose, stealing matches and setting things on fire. My family was a bit fucked up (everyone has those stories) alcoholics, drug addicts, abuse, custody fights. You know the normal shit you grow up to tell your therapist.