Every time I meet someone knew, I am asked the same question once people take a good look at my face, how did you get that? Get what? I always ask; That scar above your right eye, must be a cool story. It really is not, but I tell the story anyway: When I was two and at my sister's Christening, everyone was leaving because the party at my house afterwards was over. I was walking up the stairs to leave the area I was at when my dad calls for me. Time to say goodbye to your family, he said. I turned around to come back down the stairs and lost my balance. This made me tumble down the stairs and fall onto one of those umbrella stands that people use for decorations. The impact of the fall sliced my eyebrow and left me there to bleed; although I had no idea what was going on and I did not seem to cry about it. That is, until relatives started to freak out and my mom's cousin came and compressed towels on my face. That made me cry and I was rushed to the hospital in one of my family member's cars so that I could get my eye fixed. The doctors said they needed to do plastic surgery because it would look better and I would have a greater chance of going blind if they did not. The next thing I knew I was awake with stitches near my eye and I had them for quite a while after just to make sure everything was healed. And that is how I was left with this scar. It is not as prominent as it used to be but when people notice it they always ask about it; I end up telling the same story several times. It gets annoying after a while but I try not to seem agitated when people ask about it. I do not remember any of this story, but my parents have told it so many times that it has become a part of me, as if I remember almost exactly what happened. Sometimes I can replay my interpretation of what happened even though I never remembered exactly what occurred. It is as if I know what went on even though I was too young to remember anything that happened up to now. The story just stuck. I think it stuck because I am constantly reminded of this story every time I look into a mirror and see the mark left from that day. It reminds me of how clumsy I was and how one little tumble left me with something that will remind me of that forever. That story does reflect on how I am now because I am still very clumsy. I trip sometimes over my own two feet and cannot always seem to keep my balance. From time to time, I want to get rid of my scar just because I am sick of always having to tell the tale of how I got it, but some people say that is what makes me different. That they could not picture me without it, it is a part of me. This scar will be with me for the rest of my life and I will always have the story of how it happened to bring me back to my childhood. The story of my scar will never be forgotten because I will always carry the reminder with me and people will continue to ask me about it.

When I was six years old, my extended family and I went to the beach. I have an enormous family, and all my cousins and aunts and uncles were in attendance. The beach stretched for about a mile, and the sand was dirty brown and covered with seaweed and other ocean flora. It was low tide so most of the sand was chilly and damp except for the scorching hot sand near the parking lot. All of our towels were lined up in a group near the snack bar, and we packed so many coolers, towels, and umbrellas that our site could probably have been seen from space. There were seven sets married couples present, and all of the moms were sitting eating cherries and drinking tab, while the husbands sat drinking beer with the Red Sox playing on a portable radio. There were twenty or so kids running around unsupervised, so trouble was bound to ensue. As soon as our area was all set up, my brother Max, my cousin Mark, my cousin Shane, and I ripped off our t shirts, kicked off our sandals, and ran into the water. The initial shock of the icy water sent chills up my spine and I let off a few spasms before diving in head first. The north Atlantic water was nearly unbearable. After fifteen minutes of wrestling in the ocean, we bolted out towards the towels. None of us were ocean people anyway; we had seen Jaws the previous summer at our grandmother’s house. The sand stuck to our toes and ankles as soon as we parted from the water. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but running back toward the sea meant running away from a warm towel which was not an option at the time. We arrived at where our mothers were sitting and grabbed the first towels we could see. This is where the trouble began. My cousins Mark and Shane had always had a heated rivalry. All throughout our childhood they would fight, and it usually got physical. We were all around the same age, but they would often be competing with one another. They both wanted to use the same towel. It was a dark orange towel covered with giraffes, and for some strange reason, it was extremely appealing to both of them. They both claim, to this day, that they grabbed it first. Regardless of who was the first to claim the prize, Shane was the one that ended up with it. He yanked it away from Mark and ran away to dry himself in peace. Mark, defeated, found another towel. My brother, Max, and I gave each other a concerned look. We knew that this would not be the end of this dispute. Shane had won the battle, but there was still a war to be fought that would rage on for years to come. After a quick snack, the four of us grabbed our Velcro sandals, strapped them on, and headed for the jetty on the other side of the beach. It was a long hike, so when we arrived, we all relaxed and looked for sea glass. Unfortunately, Mark had been plotting to take down Shane ever since the giraffe towel escaped his grasp. Shane and Max were walking along the sand at the base of the jetty, while Mark was at the top. I was directly between the two, crouched down examining a shiny piece of green sea glass. All of a sudden, something huge smacked me on the top of the head. A shooting pain was sent into my brain, and then I blacked out. I woke up with a crowd standing over me. My mother was pressing a towel against my hair and Mark was standing above me trying to apologize. He kept saying, “I meant to hit Shane!” I reached up to touch the wound. When I looked at my hand, there was blood coating my fingers. Apparently, Mark had thrown a boulder the size of his fist at Shane, but missed and hit me. Today, the four of us are all extremely close, and I still have a scar on my scalp.

Your earliest memory

Angela's Ashes begins with Frank describing his parents meeting and marrying, followed by descriptions of his earliest memories of life with his little brothers. It seems evident from these early passages (the tone he uses, the recollections of particular conversations at which he wasn't present) that he is not just drawing on his own memories, but on family lore. Is there a story from your earliest moments that has been told and re-told so often that it feels like an actual memory of your own? Tell that story, and then think about why it has been preserved in this way in your family. What are the "sticky" qualities of the story? Is it funny? Does it reflect something about the person you've become? What makes it worth telling & retelling?

Please post your answer as a COMMENT to this post; your answer should be at least 600 words long (I would suggest that you write it in MSWord or another program that provides a Word Count tool, and then copy it into the blog). You should have posted by Sunday, May 15, at 10 p.m.