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.
A story about moments I do not remember is the story about my first words. Apparently, I was rather musically inclined as a child and loved to sing along, singing or humming the sounds of songs even long before I could form words well enough to sing the actual lyrics. So it does not really come as a surprise that, according to my parents, my first words were the lyrics of the nursery rhyme “Baa Baa Blacksheep,” and my first sounds were “Baa Baa.” According to my parents, I used to walk around the house singing, especially this song, and loved music so much that all they needed to do to calm me down when I cried was play a song. I used to sing this particular nursery rhyme, and especially liked the chorus, “Baa baa black sheep, have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, 3 bags full,” while walking around the house, even when amongst my family members and friends. I do not actually remember these moments, but my parents love to remind me of them, usually when they are reminiscing or simply want to embarrass me. They find it amusing and interesting that my first words and general behavior as a baby and toddler were predictive of my interest in music, as well as my love for singing. On every baby video of mine, that they have shown me, there are always moments where I am singing and I find it rather odd, but very unique, that I could sing before I could really walk and talk. I don’t tend to remember my childhood, and am usually not very interested in seeing my dorky childhood caught on tape or DVD. However, this memory has been told so often, and is so reflective of me that it has become special enough to be ingrained in my memory, and I can imagine it as if I really remember what the actual moment was like. This story sticks out in my mind because it is so reflective and predictive of how I have turned out, and I have a personal connection to these moments.
ReplyDeleteIt is truly a part of my recollection now, and I always look back to this memory fondly whenever I doubt my musical talents or am down because I have not been able to achieve something so I feel mediocre and average. I have always been different from the typical kid, in a good way, and this story reminds me of that. I am proud to be able to claim that my singing talents seem to be deeply-rooted to as far back as my early childhood that I cannot even remember. This story is my motivation to sing. It keeps me going when I do not get what I auditioned for or hit some sort of difficulty. It helps me to remember that everyone has their ups and downs, but when you care about something, you will do whatever it takes to fulfill that goal, that dream, or that wish. Singing is my passion, it is practically in my blood, and has obviously been a prominent part of my life from very early onwards. For this reason, this story become a very special one to me, a treasured memory that my parents love to remind me of so often that I still feel like I do remember these times. In life, everyone has those breakthrough moments, a story that marks the beginning of a legacy or realization, and the tale of a moment that defines who you are as a person and who you will become. These stories are what stick with you through life, and stand out amongst the jumble of memories in your mind. This story is the defining moment from my childhood, and that is why I remember it like an actual memory.
I was only three years old when my family and I moved to America from England. My family often tells many stories about our lives in England, however, I was so young that I do not remember a single thing. One story has affected me more than the others and has been retold so many times that I feel as though I can remember the exact moment. One day, back when I was a toddler, my mom took me in the stroller to go and pick my older brother up from his school. My mom began to talk with a friend and allowed me to wander around the playground while we were waiting. My brother and his friend came out and convinced me to get back in the stroller so they could push me in it on the grass. Without strapping me in my brother and his friend each took a handle of the stroller and began to run as fast as they could while pushing me. It was not long before they ran into a rock and I came flying out of the stroller and cracked my head open on the rock. While I had blood streaming down my face and I was screaming at the top of my lungs, my brother calmly picked me up and carried back over to my mom. From there they took me to the hospital and after a long wait I was in to see the doctor. However, during this waiting time I had stopped crying and started laughing hysterically at the sight of blood all over my face. My family was shocked by the fact that I was laughing while being in what looked like excruciating pain. However, my scar was not the only thing from this story that had a lasting effect on me. I learned two main things from this story that I have stuck with me today. One of these things is that I know that I can always count on my brother and my family to help me out whenever I need it. Instead of freaking out when seeing that I was covered in blood and that he was partly to blame for that, my brother calmly and maturely did the right thing, although he was only seven years old. The fact that my brother could do all that in a scary moment when he was seven, I know that I can definitely count on him today to help me out as well. The second thing that I understand from this story is that I can withstand any pain and still come through with a smile on my face. At three years old I was able to laugh about a situation even though I was in a lot of pain. If I could get over having my head cracked over and blood streaming all over my face by laughing it off I know that there are a lot of difficult things that I can get through. As well as these lessons, this story has always been a funny story that has been told and retold many times in my family. My family loves to tell this story about my resiliency over this incident. My parents always connect this story to the fact that my name means warrior and how ever since I was little and when this accident happened I have proven to be worthy of my name and its meaning. Although I have no real recollection of what happened that day, I have heard this story told so many times that I feel like I can remember any single detail of what happened.
ReplyDeleteThroughout my life I have been told various stories about my early childhood. These stories are ones that I have no recollection of, yet have been told so many times that they have become a part of my earliest memories. One of my mother’s favorite stories to tell of me is the time my family moved from Texas back to Massachusetts. I was very little at the time, only 2 years old, and was going through that phase know as the “terrible twos”. My father had already left for Boston, leaving my mother alone with me and my two older sisters. Before we could take the plane ride to Boston, we first had to take a plane from Austin, where we had lived, to Dallas. The plane ride was short and very comforting, so comforting in fact that when the plane landed I was not ready to get off. I threw a huge temper tantrum and refused to get out of my seat, forcing my mother to drag me off the plane. The flight attendants on this flight were also not very helpful and constantly gave my mother dirty looks for not being able to control her young son. After finally dragging me off the plane, my mother faced the tortuous task of dragging me across the airport in order to get to our next flight. All the while my two sisters calmly stayed by her side and helped in any way they could. My mother was understandably exhausted by the task and had to stop in the middle of the airport in order to collect herself. At this moment a strange lady walked up to my mother and told her that “everything would be alright”. This small bit of reassurance was enough to give my mother new strength in order to carry me over to the next terminal and get me on the next plane in time. To top it all off the flight crew for our next flight was the same crew from our previous flight, and they did not look too happy to see my family and me again. All of my tantrums in the Dallas airport had worn me out and for the rest of the way to Boston I was as peaceful and rarely said a word as I calmly exited the plane after we landed in Boston. The story has been retold again and again because it conveys an important message, that no matter how things may look, everything will end up okay. The story shows my mother’s strong perseverance and determination as well. There are many intriguing details in this story that differ from many other childhood tantrums my sisters and I had. The strange lady who came up to my mother and gave her the advice is someone my mother will never forget, despite the fact that that brief instance is the only time she will ever see that woman. The flight crew is also another interesting detail because my mother always gets a smile every time she remembers the look on those flight attendants’ faces. My family also finds the story interesting because of how much I have changed since then. Now I am a very agreeable person who almost never gets overly upset or into arguments with anybody. The story also shows that even at a young age my sisters knew when to not add on to my mother’s misery and the importance of helping out my mother. The many retellings of this story have produced many false images in my head that I now relate with the story. Although I do not remember the actual details, in my mind I have my own vision for every detail. The story’s message and details are ones that will stick with me forever and that is why this particular story has become a part of my memory.
ReplyDeleteA story that has been told and re-told from my earliest moments is when my father dropped me after slipping on ice when I was a wee lad. After a scrumptious brunch, my mother and father left a restaurant in Concord with my dad holding my in his arms. It had been another day of going into public places and dealing with people who wanted to see the baby up close and ask about it and otherwise be a big pain in the butt. This is how my father viewed it at least. My mother loved all the attention I was receiving as she loved showing me off in every way to people. Anyways, it was a cold winter day and the parking lot had become very icy. The snow banks were piled high, and the pavement was slippery. Now my father has always been a safe, reliable, not klutzy guy before. But that day the ice was just too much for him, and he slipped and fell. In the process, I went from being in the comforting embrace of his arms to be being thrown like a ball high up into the air! Unfortunately neither of my parents was able to catch me, so my landing pad became the icy pavement. With a sickening thud I hit the ice hard. As all this was transpiring, the other people in the restaurant who had just been admiring my stunning cuteness watched in horror. As soon as they saw me thrown up into the air, they came flying out of the restaurant to try to help. I was crying and crying and crying, but luckily there was no serious damage done to me, and I was alright. Personally, I find the story to be hilarious. Some people are shocked when they hear it, but I think they’re being too serious. Sometimes when I play contact sports like football, and get really mad and smack some people, my dad will comment to me after that the only way I could possibly be that crazy is because of him throwing me up into the air and me hitting my head on the ice. So I guess I thank him for it, because I like being crazy in that sort of way. A reason it has been preserved in the family is so my father can always be criticized for it. Through being around for the telling of this story and the comments afterwards, I have noticed people love to criticize others. My dad always catches a lot of blame for this event, and rightfully so. But he didn’t mean to do it (I hope) so I bear no grudges against him for it. An important detail to note in the story is the reaction from the people who were in the restaurant at the time of the incident. My parents vividly remember every single person running out of the restaurant to try to help my family in any way that they possibly could. I find this to be an important part of the retelling of the story because I deeply appreciate the fact that a bunch of complete strangers would go out of their way to help me and my parents in an extremely scary and dangerous situation. It really shows how caring people can be, and it makes me feel good to know that they would come try to help me. Although I have no recollection of this story, through every telling and retelling I have heard I feel as though I know every last detail. I believe it will be a story that I will be telling people for the rest of my life. Jake P
ReplyDeleteA story that has been told multitudinous times in my family is the story of how my mother and father first met. Apparently, so the story goes, my mom, Lisa, just started working at GE straight out of Georgetown with a degree in finance. My dad, Hal, on the other hand, had been working at GE for a little while before my mom started working there. As the story goes, my mom’s department was sent to audit, or check the finances of, my dad’s department to make sure everything was in tip-top shape. After giving my mom the needed information that her superiors needed in order to check all the financial nonsense that was going on in my dad’s department, my audacious father had the effrontery to ask my mother out for “some coffee some time”. My mom always said that she was taken aback by how nice and classy my dad was to her that day, but I always tell her it was because of his moustache. Moving right along in the story, as days turned into weeks that turned into months, my parents became better and better friends. Finally, after about four months since their first encounter, my parents were officially an “item”, as my mom calls it. As my dad always says to me when he retells this story, the turning point from my mom and him being “just friends” to an “item” was that they would go out to lunch everyday to a little diner within a stone’s throw from their office building. It wasn’t long after these daily lunch dates that my parents had an inclining about the other in that s/he may be “the one”. My mom and dad both admit that there was something about the other that made them both feel different, in a good way, and that it eventually led to their marriage. My dad always says that he had been out with other women before my mom, which is weird to think about because I can’t see my dad with anyone but my mom; I think most of us feel that way: we can’t imagine our parents with anyone else but our parents. My dad was enthralled when my mom came around because he liked that she was educated; not just book smart and what not but she knew how to carry herself and not take any malarkey from anyone in the business world. On the other side of the spectrum is my mom, whom was relieved my dad came along because she admits she was always into men who could carry a conversation, have spontaneous fun, were polite and respectful. Maybe some of these qualities in my dad aren’t still there, according to her, but they were there at one point and that’s what got my mom hooked. As my mom said to me, it was comparable to that Saturday Night Live skit: she had a fever, and the only prescription was more Hal-bell. I make fun of her all the time for saying that, obviously, because it’s just ridiculous, but my dad makes her happy and that’s all I can ask for. This got me thinking whether or not I’ll meet “the one” at a future job; maybe I’ll have a moment like my dad did and have a woman walk into my office one day and just have a certain feeling about her. Who knows…only time will tell.
ReplyDeleteOne of my earliest “memories”, one which I only remember from the many stories I have been told about was the day that my brother was born, when I was about three years old. I woke up and walked downstairs, as I usually did each morning. I called out for my mom and dad, but no one answered and the house seemed eerily empty. As I walked into our family room a saw a lump on the couch with auburn hair on top. The lump soon awoke and it was our family friend Nancy who had come to stay with me while my parents were at the hospital. The first thing she did when she got up was to take me to the phone with her and call my parents to get the baby update. And the news was that I had a brand new baby brother. Before Nancy took me to the hospital to meet my brother she took me out on a “Big Girl Shopping Trip”. I remember stopping at a mini cafe and getting yummy cinnamon toast slathered with butter. Then she bought me a “Big Girl” Hat and a “Big Girl” Purse. The hat was black and velvety with a big red bow around it. The purse had a long strap to put over my shoulder and was bright red, shaped like a heart. That purse kept eating up the change that Nancy had given to me to put in there. Years later I examined the purse when I found it in my closet to see if there was some rip inside that the coins had slipped into, but I could find no such thing! So I kept asking Nancy for more and more change to replace the lost change. And she of course obliged, trying to make it a special day for me too. We were at a mall during all of this, and in one of the atrium areas a live band was playing. I danced in circles and according to Nancy, all the people surrounding just watched me and smiled at me, the little girl dancing around in circles with her new hat and new purse. After awhile we made our way to the hospital. When I went into the room my parents simply beamed at me and introduced me to my brother, Jamie. “Hi Rainbow-Baby-Jamie”, I said. My parents just laughed at my odd affinity for referring to my brother as “Rainbow-Baby”. The nurse who had brought Jamie into the room set me up on the bed with a pillow in my lap so I could hold Jamie. I held him and stared at him in awe with a big smile on my face. The nurse remarked that she had never seen a young child so enthralled by their new sibling. My parents smiled and said something along the lines of, “That's our girl!”. Since I was three at the time, I may actually have a memory of a few of those details, but not all of the ones involved in this story. The main reason this story is “sticky” is because of what an important day it was. Our family of three became a family of four, who had just moved into our new house. We were all starting a new chapter in our lives. I think this story also tells a lot about me. I'm a “people person”, very outgoing, talkative and friendly. Whenever I'm feeling down its my friends and family that boost me back up. Jamie was no exception to my demeanor, I loved my little brother from the moment I laid eyes on him. And although it was a very important day for my parents, and of course little Jamie, Nancy realized that I needed to understand my role of being the “Big Girl” and give me a bit of pampering since my parents would be busy. Although today I can obviously let someone else have their big day and not feel the need to make it about me at all, its still true that occasionally I need someone to pay attention to me. And I’ve had to learn to ask for it when I need it. For example, the other week I somehow wound up working 30 hours in addition to going to school and doing all my homework. By Friday night I came home and simply told my mom I needed some time to talk to her and unwind from the busy week. This story is one close to my heart and I feel that stories like this one are important to people because it reminds them of how they got to where they are today.
ReplyDeleteGrowing up my family never visited my grandparents that often. On the rare occasion that we went to their house, it was always an adventure. This made my fifth birthday present from them extra special. They gave me a yellow duck stuffed animal with a little bit of white hair and black eyes. I named him George after my favorite movie of the time, George of the Jungle. After this I grew an obsession for ducks. I thought they were so cute and I wanted one so bad. I continued to get different gifts of ducks; wooden ducks, duck clothes and duck charms for my charm bracelet. Yet it still didn’t satisfy my desire to have my own real chick duck. I decided to take matters into my own hands. I first tried to persuade my brother Chris and sister Lauren that it was a good idea to get a duck. I told them how fun playing with the duck could be in our pool in the summer. I told them my plan to get the duck. We would walk across the street to my neighbor’s yard and look in her pond for a duck. If we found one, we would lure it into our house making a trail of bread that the duck would eat. Chris and Lauren agreed to help me catch a pet duck because they also thought it would be fun to play in the pool it. We told my parents that we were just going to play outside in the neighborhood, but instead we went across to my neighbors’ pond. My neighbor was Mrs. Forneigh. She was a nice elder lady, but she always was very protective of her garden, which she spent every waking hour pruning the branches of bushes and pulling up weeds which I thought was a little odd. While the three of us were walking in her lawn to the pond we heard little chirping noises. Lauren led me and Chris over to Mrs. Forneighs’ window. We peered over the window sill and inside her house were a bunch of baby chicks in a crate. I was so excited I figured they were the same as baby ducks. Chris bent over and let me use his back as a stepping stool to sneak in through the window. After struggling I finally climbed inside and I accidently knocked over a vase of flowers. Mrs. Forneigh came running in. She was shocked to see me in her house and immediately called my mother. My mom was no too happy with me after that.
ReplyDeleteAfter plan A to lure in a duck from Mrs. Forneighs yard didn’t work, I made up a new scheme. My dad had previously told me that eggs became baby chicks once hatched, which I thought would grow into ducks. One day while no one was in my house I peeped out of my room and ran into the kitchen. I opened up the refrigerator and sitting in front of me was the egg carton. I snuck out an egg and scurried back to my room. In my room I put the egg under George, thinking he would keep the egg warm while I wasn’t there all day. At night while I was lying in bed I would cuddle with the egg to try to warm it enough to hatch. When I woke up the next morning the egg was gone. I was upset, but soon got over it and returned to the refrigerator to grab a new egg to hatch into a baby duck. The next morning I woke up and again there was no egg and no baby duck anywhere. This became a routine of getting a new egg by day, keeping it warm at night, and losing it by the next morning. One afternoon my mom picked me up from a play date and asked why she found many eggs all in the bottom of my bed when she was changing the sheets. I stopped getting eggs from the fridge after that, but I still really wanted a pet duck.
My parents’ unromantic story has always been an interesting topic after dinner, even though I think it has been modified. I think the story itself might be very dramatic, but for some reason my parents, especially my dad, always tried to make it seems very plain. Both of them claimed they never tried hard chasing each others and they married because they did not have any other choices. And they said that was the worst choice they made in their lives. But after a little bit of investigation, I found some contradictions in their story which indicated that this story was actually more dramatic than they claimed.
ReplyDeleteAccording to them, they met in a Taiwanese college in freshman year because they were both in a harmonica club, and at this point they were just normal friends. After four years, both of them decided to go abroad to study, and they accidentally saw each others where they got their visa. Unfortunately (or my dad said fortunately) my mom went to a different school. I thought they started calling each others after this point because after a year my dad proposed to my mom and they were engaged. There must be something going on in between but, oh well, they never told me. I happened to overhear from my mom that my dad’s telephone bill for that year cost more than a car. Anyway, my mom transferred to my dad’s university, and they lived happily together. By saying happily, I meant they wondered around America and eat all kinds of delicious food you can think of. My dad always wanted to do his lab, but my mom made him drive her around every weekend. It’s always harsh life for men after marrying his princess. But, somehow my dad managed to earn enough money to go back to Taiwan, marry and come back to America. He must work pretty hard that year.
Time passed through quickly and my brother was born. He was lovely to my mom and deadly to my dad. My mom was so happy that she forced my dad, who had several papers and reports piling on his desk, to drive them to different states to celebrate this unforgettable event. My mom couldn’t forget it because my brother brought fresh air to our family, and my dad couldn’t forget it because taking care of my brother was really tiresome. He woke my parents up everyday and gave different “tasks.” There was one day, my brother cried at midnight because he lost his pacifier somewhere. It was very late and almost all stores were closed. My dad had to drive around the town to find a store that was open and sold pacifier. After some struggle my dad finally found a store that was almost closed in the middle of nowhere. He saw the clerk turning off the lights and immediately asked if he had a pacifier. He did give my dad one, but he was extremely surprised that someone would want to drive that far to buy a pacifier at this time. His face was really funny that he wanted to laugh, but he couldn’t because he saw my dad’s angry face. This probably explains why my dad is a little scared of children now. You can imagine having three boys giving different “tasks” everyday at different time for years was not fun.
My parents always told us our funny stories when we were young. When we asked why they married, they always tried to bring the conversation back to our stories instead of theirs, or they would tell the cut version of their story. I think they felt embarrassed when they told their story, so we all gave up. Anyway, the most important reason my parents told these stories was to make us laugh and brought us closer together. They did not really reflect any of our personalities because we were too young at that point. But we all remember these stories because this was the time when we were so innocent and they were so passionate (maybe, but I don’t really know), and we would never be like this again, so it is the most precious thing we had.
A memory which I only know from stories I have been told would be the one where my hair was set on fire. When I was 3 years old, I was living in California with my parents. One day, my cousins came over for a play date. They were both around the age of 6. Their idea of “fun” was much different than mine. Instead of playing with my Barbie dolls and kitchen play set, they preferred to light things on fire. One of these things included my hair. Although I was very young, I had a nice head full of hair, long enough for then to light up. At first I did not know what was happening. Then I noticed my parents screaming and my cousins running around laughing. There was a terrible smell in the air. As you may or may not know, burning hair does not smell the best. I look down and saw a nice flame on the tip of my ponytail. My parents rushed me to the hose and soaked me in water. Hair shrivels and looks gross once it gets burned so they had to chop off parts of my hair. My cousins had to get picked up and from what I’ve heard they were grounded for quite some time. Every time they came over we always had to hide the lighters and matches because I didn’t have enough hair to protect me.
ReplyDeleteThis story gets told to me every time we have family reunions. Everyone has a good laugh at how stupid I was to let my cousins do evil experiments using my hair. They were trouble makers, and I was their guinea pig. This story showed how careless I was and how observant I was to things happening around me. I didn’t even know they were lighting me on fire! The “sticky” qualities of this story include the fact that not many people can say their child’s hair has been set on fire. This story is also sticky (literally) because burnt hair has a sticky texture. After such an incident I became much more careful and attentive. Nothing as dangerous has ever happened to me since then. I realized that it’s important to be alert and be able to recognize when something’s dangerous. At least that’s what my parents tell me. Personally I believe that I am much more careful because that is just what happens when kids grow up. Seeing that I am still alive, this story is actually very funny. What kind of a child just stands there and lets someone light her hair on fire? Apparently I did! It’s a little embarrassing to think that was that stupid child, but at least when my English teacher assigns the class to write about a memory, I have a story to tell. . My parents tell and retell this story whenever a talk about raising a child comes up. Some may talk about how their child has fallen off a bike, or wiped out with learning to ski. Those are stories they tell when talking about my brother but not me. Instead stories of me taking my pet turtle on walks and having him fall into the sewer are told. Stories about having nightmares where a tiger was chasing me on a couch or an apple too big to fit in my mouth! Those are the memories of others that are told to me as stories from my early days. Memories that I have no recollection of but seem like my own due to these stories that others have told.
My mom always says that I was an amazing sleeper as a baby, once she could get me to sleep. A story that my mom has told many times is when she went Christmas shopping for me. I was almost one year old and it was early December. My dad worked every day and did not come home until 6. This meant that my mom was stuck with me for the day, even though she wanted to go shopping. Normally this would have meant that she would have had to wait for my Dad to be home to buy me Christmas presents. But luckily for her, I happened to be an extremely sound sleeper. So she decided to drive to Toys R Us in New Hampshire and figured I would be asleep by the time we got there. She was right. She pulled into the Toys R Us parking lot sometime in the middle of the day and I was in the back seat in my car seat sound asleep. My mom managed to get me out of the car and into the seat of the shopping cart without me noticing. She then proceeded to spend over an hour in Toys R Us buying toys and placing them right in back of me while I was sleeping. I woke up soon after I got into the car, but the toys were safely hidden in the trunk of the car. But the story doesn’t end there. On the way home I feel asleep again. My mom got home and decided to take this time to wrap all of the presents with me in the room. By the time I woke up there were new Christmas presents under the tree waiting to be opened. I can only imagine feeling bewildered and not knowing how they got there. I always think about how I would have felt if I had woken up while still in the store. I most likely would have thought it was a dream anyway seeing as I was surrounded by thousands of toys. Despite being a very sound sleeper to this day, I have been told that it was a nightmare to get me to sleep. This task often involved driving me around for almost an hour until I would fall asleep. This story is always told in conjunction with another related story.
ReplyDeleteEvery summer we take a week long vacation to Sebago Lake in Maine. My Dad’s side of the family shares a cottage up there that has been in the family for many years. We usually go with my cousins and grandparents and it is always a great week. The worst part of the trip is the three hour drive. Once when I was little I was asleep when my parents were ready to leave at the end of the week. They simply took me out of crib, put me in my car seat and started the long trip home. I stayed asleep for the full three hours and even long enough for my parents to put me into my own bed after I got home.
I woke up thoroughly confused and asked “Where’d Maine go?” For some reason my parents thought that that was the funniest thing and continue to tell this story. These stories are still told today because they are describe a personal characteristic that I still have today and are slightly humorous. I do not remember either of these events actually happening, partly because I was sleeping during most of both stories and partly because it was so long ago. I have a strange feeling that I remember bits and pieces of waking up at home after coming back from Maine, but I think that they just came from hearing that story so many times.
One story that I have heard many times from my very early youth, but I do not remember, was when my family first moved into our house in Acton. It was the middle of summer and it was very warm and sunny day. I was only 3 years old at the time and we had just left our home in Arlington to come to Acton. From what I am told I did not want to leave Arlington because it was where I grew up and all my toys were. My parents say I was crying all the way to Acton. When we arrived I instantly stopped crying because I saw how big our new yard was and I saw the new swing set and sandbox. I jumped out of the car and ran to the back yard and started to play in the sand box. My parents say I was so excited that I did not even want to go inside the house. Next I jumped on the swing set, which my dad had just put up for me, next to the sand box and started begging my dad to push me. My dad finally agreed to push me. I had this habit of jumping of the swing when I got really high. So on the third time I jumped off the swing I rolled my foot and was in a lot of pain, so I started crying. My mom and dad both jumped back into the car that we still had not unpacked and drove me all the way to Emerson Hospital. By the time we arrived there it was raining out, only in New England sunny at one minute raining the next. The doctor asked my parents what had happened to me and my dad told the man how I jumped off the swing. I was fine and the doctor said it was not broken and released me about an hour after we arrived. On the way back to our new house I started crying again. My mom asked me what was wrong and I said I was scared to see the swings again. So when we arrived home my mom took me straight inside and told my dad to go take apart the swing set until I am a little older. My dad went to the swing set and starting taking it apart and putting it in the shed. The next day I went outside and started playing in the sand box again. When I was done I got up and just stared straight at where the swing set was. My dad was not home and my mom asked me what I was doing and I asked where did the swings go. My mother told me my dad put them away until I was older so I would not hurt myself any more on them. Well I started crying again because I really wanted to play on the swings again. My mother had to call my dad who was all the way in Boston to come home and fix the swings because I would not stop crying. So my dad drive 30 minutes all the way from Boston just to fix my swing set so I could go back on it. My parents were really surprised by this because they do not understand why I was frightened one day and cheerful the next. I guess my parents and I will never know because I do not remember these few days in my early childhood. My parents tell me his story every time me or my brother are scared of anything and it really helps us get over our fears.
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ReplyDeleteMy parents love telling me about my young childhood. From how much trouble I was to what Nick and I did together. One such story of how much trouble the two of us were that my parents have repeatedly told me was while my parents, Nick, and I where shopping at toys r us my brother, Nicholas, managed to sneak away from my parents and go play in an outdoor toy section in toys r us. However, my mom thought he had gone to stay with my dad and my dad had thought that Nick had gone to my mom so when they went to check out what we had bought and saw that they only had one of us you can imagine what a shock that was. They quickly filled a missing child report to the managers of toys r us describing what Nick looked like and was wearing. Then, the three of us started searching around the store me with my mom and my dad alone. However, while my mom was walking around with me searching for Nick a woman followed my mom and kept saying Nicholas, Nicholas, Nicholas. She was probably thinking that I was Nicholas because we were dressed and looked exactly alike. My mom told her that I was Nick’s twin and not the right child to be searching for. However, the woman did not relent continually following my mom thinking that she was kidnapping a child or something. So, finally my mom picked me up went to the front desk and told everyone to look for my twin brother who looked just like me. Eventually they found Nick in the toy section. This story has been told to me numerous times and I always think it is funny. The fact that even while the two of us were kids no one had a clue what the difference between the two of us was makes me laugh. Also, the fact that not much has changed makes this story even more interesting for me. Because, as we grew up many people mistook the two of us for each other. One very recent and hilarious example is freshman year physical education Nicholas had first period pe and I had fourth period however my teacher Mrs. Hoag thought that I was coming twice because she saw Nick then me. She finally learned the truth half way through the year that there were two of us on parent teacher night when my mom came in and explained to here that we were twins and that there really were two of us. When I learned of this Nick and I had a great time laughing about it. The funny think though was sophomore year we both had Mr. Grucela and Mr. Montelbano as teachers and the two of them constantly confused the two of us all the time as well as classmates who had had one of us the year prior and then had the other sophomore year. These encounters have taught me that people can easily mistake people for others and that everyone should treasure their individuality and the individuality of the people around them. This story also taught me a great lesson about how people should not judge other people based on how they look. For example just because I looked like Nick many people assume I am Nick. However the two of us differ as people in how we act in our lives and what books and food we like. This story always helped me think that people are not how they seem on first glance. Jocks may not just be good at sports but also be an A student who excels in school and people who sleep in class may just be tired for spending the whole night studying to pass a test or pass in a important project. Altogether this is a story that I always have liked and think it should be retold in the future
ReplyDeleteMy parents have told me many stories of my childhood where I was too young to fully remember. One that has been told many times is the story of when my sister pushed me when I was on the stairs. My parents have told and re-told this story to me countless times, to the point where it is like a memory of my own. I was about three or four years old and my sister was about seven. Back when we were living in Union, New Jersey, my family lived in a small house and there was a short set of stairs that went up and down the second floor. One day, my sister and I were goofing around and I stole a toy of hers. She started to chase me around the house and as I was about to step onto the staircase, she stuck her hand out and pushed me. I tripped from the force of the push and started to roll and tumble down the steps. I could not control where I was going or stop myself; therefore, I smacked my head on the corner of the wall at the bottom of the stairs. I hit the wall fairly hard and it opened a large gash on my forehead. Naturally, I started to cry uncontrollably. My mom and dad heard the noise and rushed over to see what had happened. My mom screamed at the sight of my face covered in blood and quickly got a towel to stop the bleeding. My sister told my dad what had occurred and my dad was furious at her, but was too worried about me to bother punishing her. My dad got us all into the car and we quickly rushed to the hospital. At the hospital, I was extremely scared because I had no idea what the doctor was going to do. I had to get seven stitches however I do not remember how it felt, but it there is no doubt that it was incredibly painful. My parents say I cried through the whole ordeal and it was probably the most I had ever cried in my entire life. The gash healed within a couple of months and all that is left now is a small scar on the top of my forehead. My sister was deeply apologetic and said that it was not her intention at all to hurt me. She regrets that it turned out the way it did would take it back in an instant if she had the chance. However, I think the whole unpleasant incident brought my sister and me closer. This story has been preserved in my family throughout my life because it was a scary moment for all of us. It could have ended up being much worse, but luckily for me, my parents were right there to help me. For if they had not been there, who knows what would have happened to me. For that reason, I am truly grateful and appreciative of my parents. It brought my relationship with my sister and my parents closer. Since I do not remember the pain of what had happened, I think that is why I easily forgave my sister. The scar on my forehead reminds me of the story every time I see it. Even though I do not remember what exactly happened through my own recollection, I will remember this story for the rest of my life like it is my own memory because my parents have told it to me numerous times and it is an important moment in my childhood.
ReplyDeleteIt was a sunny afternoon in East Greenwich, Rhode Island. My family had arrived mid-morning to celebrate Father’s Day with my aunt and uncle. The party had been going on for several hours. Everyone was having a great time socializing and eating barbeque. My Mom left me with my Papa for a bit so that she could run inside the house. Mesmerized by all the toys out on the lawn, I found a toy lawn mower that made popping noises as it was pushed. Although I had just begun walking on my own, I got up and started pushing the lawn mower down the driveway. Pop! Pop! Pop! I turned out of the driveway and went right down the street. Pop! Pop! Pop! Meanwhile, back at the house, my mom realized that she hadn’t seen me in a while. She spoke to my Papa who was supposed to be watching me. He said that he thought my Aunt Kath was watching me. When my Aunt said that she had no idea where I was, my mom started to get nervous. No one knew where I had gone. At first, she looked around the house and then outside on the lawn, but when I was nowhere to be found, the whole party was outside looking for me. Pop! Pop! Pop! I was just having a grand old time walking around the block with my new toy taking in the new sights and smells of the nearby ocean. When my mom found me a little later walking down the street, she was so relieved that she started crying. At the time I was only about two years old and I have no real recollection of this. However, every time I visit my aunt, uncle or my Papa, the story comes up. The Italians in my family love to sit around the table eating and talking and sharing family stories. It seems funny to me that I was able to wander off with all the people that were at the party and no one realized that a little girl was escaping the property and walking off on her own. Because the story has been told so often, it seems like I actually do remember everything that happened. This story is brought up whenever there is an “I’ll never forget when…” moment. It goes to show that even at a young age I was very independent and determined to do my own thing. I did not need someone to be right there holding my hand and I liked to be on my own. It is a quality that I still posses today. I am independent person and sometimes like to just be by myself. I still like going on long walks (or runs) by myself outside in the woods or through neighborhoods just like I did back when I was only two. Since it was a pretty anxious moment for my parents, the stress of the situation for them really comes across whenever they retell the story. I know that sometimes it is really annoying for my parents to always want to know where I am going to be or what my plans are. However, when I hear this story it makes me realize that they are only worried about my safety. To make them feel better I should just let them know where I am. I also feel that another important aspect of re-telling the story is to express helpful everyone was at the party. Although there was a big miscommunication between family members, everyone was able to spread out in the neighborhood and finally find me. This story not only highlights a quality that I still posses today but it shows how tight my family is. I’m happy to know that in an instant, everyone can come together quickly to help solve problem. My family has always demonstrated these qualities, even when I was very young.
ReplyDeleteThis story takes place a while back before I left Korea at the age of five. Back then I used to stick to my mother like glue, following her wherever possible. One day, my mother decided to go to the grocery store to make dinner and left me behind. Since I have a vague memory all I can remember is following my mom and getting lost. Realizing that I incapable of retracing my path, I cried on the street. Seeing this, a woman who owned a candy shop took me in to her shop. My parents often told me that I had followed my mom out during the day time without my dad or my grandparents noticing. I had tailgated my mom until I saw my friends playing on the playgrounds. Of course, as a child I soon forgot my purpose and ran towards my friends forgetting about my mom. I played at the playground for a good part of the day. As soon as it got dark though, I started heading home only to realize that I was lost and didn’t know the way home. I wandered the streets lost and crying till a kind woman (who owned a candy store) took me into the store and called the police. Like any typical kid, I was fascinated by the police car and had to be often reminded to tell them when I see my house. When we came around a corner I looked up to see my grandparents, mom, and dad coming towards the cruiser crying and laughing. And being in a good mood, I allowed myself to be lifted and engulfed in my grandfather’s embrace. To this day, my family often talks about how much my grandfather cried only to find me in a cruiser happily sucking on a lollipop. This story often brings happiness and laughter to my family. Though I cannot remember everything that happened that day, whenever I hear the story it fills me with happiness. Of course, I’m not happy about worrying my family or making them cry, but this story always reminds me that I have a family who will always be beside me. Even if I go on a wrong path, my family will always be there at the end with open arms and worrying when I am not myself. I also believe that is the main root of my fear of getting lost. So I suppose it did help me become who I am today…not in a positive way, maybe, but I am me because of it. This story also helps me get through some tough times. In this world, it is only natural that the weak get trampled on by those who have power. I see this happening around me daily. And of course, being a child of an immigrant who is in the U.S. with an E2 visa, I also experience this. But whenever this happens, I remember how there are people in this world who are willing to reach out their hand towards you regardless of your background or who you are. They may not be rich, famous or have a strong influence in society, but I believe if you have people around you who are willing to listen to your problems, you can make it through anything.
ReplyDeleteWhen I was little my parents and I went on a trip and I personally don’t remember any of it but they have told me so many times about the events that happened on the trip that I feel like I do remember it all. At age two, my mom, step-dad, and I went to Ocracoke in North Carolina for vacation. I do not remember the trip at all because of how young I was but they have told me about various events that happened while we were there. Ocracoke is the farthest down on the outerbanks shore line so we traveled there on a ferry and stayed in a house we rented out. Looking back a bit before the trip, I had a blocked tear duct, which meant that my eye would drip constantly. I had to go to the doctors and they put a really tiny tube in my eye to stop it from watering. So one day when we were in North Carolina I was sitting in the backseat of the car while we were driving and I sneezed. The tiny tube in my eye came out my nose and then back up again. My mom freaked out. She did not know why this happened and she was worried that if it were something bad we would be in trouble since we were not home. I ended up being fine and now we laugh about how random it was. On the trip we went to the beach almost every day. Later in the trip we were at the beach and I was playing in the sand just like all little kids love to do and I buried my mom’s sandals. My mom did not mind because she knew I was just playing. However, later on when we were about to leave the beach my mom could not find her sandals and remembered that I had been playing with them. I had buried them in the sand and my mom could not find them anywhere. Her and my dad dug where I was playing and all around where I had been but they could not find the sandals anywhere. To this day we have no idea where they went and my mom thinks it is so funny that I lost them. She is convinced the shore must have washed them up because they could not just be gone. This same trip we went into a wildlife museum where they talk about preserving the land and the animals on site but they also had souvenirs and a bunch of colorful shells you could put in bags and buy. When my parents were leaving, my mom had to change my diaper and so she laid me down in the back of the car. My fists were clenched and when she tried to open them I just looked at her and didn’t loosen my grip. Finally when my hands opened I had tons of the shells from the museum in my hands. My mom had to go inside, apologize and pay for them. Now she still jokes about how I was a thief at age two. The main reason my parents wanted to go to North Carolina was to see the wild mustangs, which Ocracoke is known for. Not only did we see them but we got a lot of other funny memories out of the trip as well.
ReplyDeleteAccording to my parents I was more than three years old before I said a single word, and apparently it took me almost until I was four before I would say anything without an extreme amount of coercion by my parents. They told me that because my sister had started talking before she was six months old, that my lack of any kind of vocal sound had worried them to the point where they took to me a number of doctors in order to find out whether or not there was something wrong with me. My mother recalls having to keep me under close observation because I was like a ghost; I would wander all over the place but I would not say a single thing even if I managed to injure myself. She clearly remembers when I took a tumble down the cement stairs in front of our old house in Newton which resulted in a handful of cuts on my face and arms, and because I did not cry or say a word about my fall she and my father only found out after I sat down for dinner with blood on my face. Needless to say my parents had been frantic and had almost decided to rush me to the hospital before they realized I was not too badly hurt. My mother says occurrences like that kept her in a state of constant fretfulness, and that she often had to get my sister to keep watch over me in order to alleviate some of her anxiety. My father on the other hand looks back on my silence with amusement as he laughs about how our neighbors never complained about a loud baby because I never cried or yelled, but he has told me that at the time he shared the same worries as my mother. He says that he constantly worried about taking me out of the house and somehow losing me in a crowd because I would not answer if I was being called for. As a baby I guess I was almost like a ghost. I could walk from an early age, so I was able to follow my family members around the house, but I was always silent. My sister only recently told me this, but she seemed to think that my silence was a hassle because my parents kept nagging her about keeping an eye on me. She remembers the frustration of asking me questions and only getting small nods or shakes of the head as responses. The simple question of what flavor of ice cream I wanted became a tedious and irritating game for her of guessing what flavor of ice cream I wanted, and according to here not only did I not speak but my preferences for ice cream changed every time she asked. So these guessing games could take a good fifteen minutes of waiting for me to finally nod my head. At family dinners now she often jokes about how much easier it is for her now because she can just coerce me into getting ice cream for everyone. The now present humor accompanied by the previously attendant worry and unease seem to make stories about my childhood muteness stick for my parents and sister. Personally, this memory sticks because it foreshadowed who I would grow up to be, and am now. Even now I have the tendency to stay silent and hide my emotions and thoughts, and to a certain extent I am relieved to know that these characteristics were present in the very early years of my life. My parents seem to have carried this story down a more humorous path that makes retelling it amusing and, at times, embarrassing for me. On the other hand, I hold on to the foreshadowing tone of this memory which reassures me that my tendencies to withdraw within myself stem from my childhood years rather than some defect. In some ways these reintroduced memories of my childhood silence reassure me that I am who I am.
ReplyDeleteMy family loves to tell and retell a story about my grandfather. When I was about three years old my family made the nine hour drive up to Niagara Falls to visit my grandparents. They lived in this big beautiful house overlooking the Niagara River, where my father and his two brothers had been raised. This particular visit was in the spring time, and it was an absolutely gorgeous day out. My parents had gone out to lunch, and my grandmother decided to take my sister and I to the” brother sister” clothing store in town. My grandmother was convinced this store was full of the most adorable clothes. However, looking back on pictures now, I disagree. My grandfather had decided to stay back at the house, because he needed to mow the lawn.
ReplyDeleteMy grandfather had a ride around lawn mower that he absolutely loved. On days that he was feeling lazy, he had been known to ride it down their slightly lengthy driveway, to get the mail. On this particular day my grandfather decided to mow the front lawn first. They had a fairly large front lawn, so by the time he got to the back yard, he was a bit tired. Maybe it was the warm sunny weather, I’ll never know, but for whatever reason, about halfway through mowing the back yard my grandfather fell asleep on the lawnmower, foot still on the gas. In most cases this wouldn’t be too horribly problematic, but my grandparents lived on the Niagara River, right on it. Their backyard literally ended in a steep drop off straight down to the water. It wasn’t a small drop either, their neighbors had built steps leading down to the river, and I once counted a hundred and thirty four steep steps.
I don’t know how long my grandfather managed to stay up on his lawn while asleep on a ride around mower, but inevitably he ended up driving himself straight off the edge of the backyard, plummeting down toward the river. Thankfully, as no one was home at the time, their neighbor, whose kitchen window faced my grandparent’s yard, was just able to catch a glimpse of my grandfather driving off the edge. She had enough sense to call nine one one, and my grandmother and sister and I returned to the house to find a driveway full of ambulances, and fire trucks with lights flashing.
Somehow, thankfully, my grandfather had gotten caught in a few of the trees growing out from the edge of the bank about halfway down the drop off, and he was able to escape falling to the rocky riverbed. The lawnmower too had gotten caught in some branches further down. By the time my grandmother, sister and I returned home, the firefighters had been able to successfully rescue both my grandfather, who miraculously was no worse for wear then a few scratches, and his lawn mower.
This story has been told over and over and over again at get-togethers form minor family gatherings, to thanksgiving dinner. The story even grew to be shared by the many tour guides who as they boating passed on the river, pointed out the spot that “Mr. C” had toppled over. As far I am aware the story has never been embellished excluding perhaps the part about the tour guides, as it is ridiculous enough to stand on its own. The incredibility of the story has never been lost on anyone, the fact that my grandfather was able to walk away, with only a few minor injuries, and that the mower too lived to see a few more years of service is truly amazing. This, I feel, is really the”sticky” quality of the story. Although I was only there to see the very end of the action, and was too little to comprehend the magnitude of what had happened, this story has been shared so much within my family I feel as if I had seen the whole thing unfold from my own eyes.
A story that has been told and retold hundreds of times in my family was about the time that I got a rather large wood chip stuck in my eye when I was about 3 years old. I have absolutely no recollection of this moment of my life but I have heard the story so many times that I know it by heart. It was a bright fall afternoon in my household and after a delicious lunch of peanut butter and jelly my parents decided that they wanted to go out for a stroll. Obviously I was too young to be left at home alone so I was plopped into my stroller and was headed out to face the world. About five minutes into this walk I had fallen right to sleep because I had just consumed a rather large lunch. To put this into perspective I live right across the street from a rather large cemetery. Behind said cemetery is a path that goes into the woods and does a loop that probably spans about a mile and a half. My parents decided that was where they wanted to walk so they crossed the street and started walking through the cemetery towards the woods. About halfway through the cemetery is when I fell right to sleep. So my parents continued on their leisurely stroll through the woods stopping here and there to admire some of the luxurious foliage that lived underneath the forest canopy. Every now and then a random squirrel would scurry by and run up a tree. Everything was so peaceful. I woke back up about halfway around this loop in the woods and I was very excited to see all of the beautiful plants and funny looking animals that were running around. Then with about 10 minutes left before the loop was completed my parents let me out of the stroller to waddle around like all little toddlers do but that turned out to be a grave mistake. It was a chilly day so I had a pair of red wool mittens on and at one point I ran over and touched a very large oak tree. What I had failed to notice was that a wood chip had come off of the bark of the tree and stuck to my mittens. When my parents put me back in the stroller to take me home I began to get sleepy again and started rubbing my eyes. The wood chip then came off of my mittens and was in my eye. Instantly the tears came running down my face and I started screaming. My parents quickly jumped into action to see what was wrong and when they saw what had happened they didn’t know what to do. It took what must have seemed like hours to a three year old me but and when we finally got home my parents ran into the bathroom and found a bottle of eye drops. Those wouldn’t seem to do much good because as soon as one hit my eye, freaked out even more. My parents were freaking out because I was screaming at the top of my little three year old lungs. After forcefully managing to get a few more eye drops into my eye, there was enough liquid that the tiny little piece of wood was finally cleared from my burning, irritated eye. The whole fiasco took about 35 minutes all together and what a painful half an hour it was. And to think, a little tiny chip of bark could cause so much pain and chaos is just outrageous. That is my earliest story that is still alive today in my household.
ReplyDeleteA story that is inevitably brought up at every family party is a story of my mother’s childhood revenge. Here is how it goes: The scene is my grandmother’s house full of five brothers and sisters. My grandmother was a single parent and was forced to work long hours to keep food on the table. As you can imagine a house full of five teenagers and no supervision can get a bit hectic. Well one night my big, boisterous uncle Mike decided for one reason or another to flush my mother’s pet goldfish down the toilet. Being too kind and gentle to openly confront him, my mother decided on a more passive aggressive approach. She knew about Mike’s secret devil dog supply under his bed and decided to take action. She secretly opened each wrapper and replace each devil dog’s cream filling with shaving cream. Upon his return home Mike ate every last one without noticing a thing.
ReplyDeleteSound so outright hilarious that it should be part of family lore? Nope? Well that’s the beauty of it. This mediocre stunt is single handedly the closest thing to funny or offensive my mom has ever done. Her glowing pride at the story’s re-telling is the true joy of the story. It has been repeated so many times that every member of the family is so utterly sick of it. But not my mother. As the Freitas family band of wise-asses and jokers sit at the dinner table, telling tales of pranks and rebellion, my mother never fails to start the story up. The response is always the same. “NOOOOO!”. She grins knowing she has told it a thousand times.
All of this teasing is of course in good fun, and represents something larger in our family. My mother’s home was constant chaos and infighting. The other stories that we hear from the household are stories of windows being broken and entire cartons of eggs becoming projectiles and children dissappering to sleep in the basement for days at a time. My Uncles and Aunts were constantly battling. Every last one of them except my mother. She was always the tender loving one who always wanted everyone to get along. Her crowning achievement was being voted nicest in school her senior year. The retelling of the story shows her pride in the fact that she too once broke the rules and got even, something she is never seen doing. So when we are all feeling nice someone will interject “Hey Mary, how’s about the devil dog story”. And always her response is a big smile. “Sure, if you want”
My parents have many funny memories of me growing up, most of which I do not remember because I was either too young or too distracted at the time to realize what was going on. One of their favorites to tell is the story of the time I poured an entire bowl of cheerios on my head, milk included. This story had been told over and over again that it feels almost as if it is my own memory. I was just over one year old and I could finally eat meals on my own, without the help of my parents to feed me. My dad was away on a business trip, like he usually is, and my mom was struggling to get me ready to go to daycare and to get herself ready to go to work. I was sitting in my high chair at the kitchen table as she was running around the house getting her briefcase together and all of my daycare things into one bag. We were running late already, so needless to say, my mom was a little stressed out. As I sat there quietly and calmly eating my cheerios she franticly searched the house for the car keys so she could finally get us going. At last, she had gotten everything all together and into the car ready to go, when she turned, ready to pull me out of my high chair so she could bring me outside and strap me into my car seat. As she turned around to face me, so I’m told, I slowly began to lift up my bowl of cheerios and milk and proceed to place the bowl upside down on top of my head. The milk was streaming down my face and my head was covered in bits and pieces of half eaten cheerios. According to my parents, I found this situation to be quite funny and was giggling and laughing, while my mom, on the other hand, was shocked and beyond frustrated. Apparently, she dropped everything she was holding, grabbed me from my chair, ran upstairs, and stuck me in the bath tub so she could wash off all the milk. Since we were already running late to begin with, she had to call in late to work and let the daycare know we would be a little delayed that morning. After I was all cleaned up and no longer drenched in milk, we left the house and I went to daycare and she went to work. When I hear this story being told over and over again to friends, relatives, and whoever else my family tells this story to, I mostly just think it’s funny, which I think is why this story has stuck in my family for so long. Though at the time she was not happy with me at all, now my mom laughs about it when this story is told, (except in reality I think she is probably still a little upset with me for making her so late to work.) Looking back on this story, I think what happened says a lot about my relationship with my mom. Because my dad is away a lot, my mom is the one who has to make sure my sister and I have everything we need for school, sports, and whatever else we do. As proven by this story, my mom would literally drop everything she was doing if I, or my sister, needed help. I really value this quality about my mom and I am so thankful I can always count on her for help because, even if she is mad or frustrated with me, I know she will always be there for me when I need her.
ReplyDeleteSometimes there are memories that you remember, but aren’t quite yours. These are stories told so many times, that they seem like they are, in fact, your own memories. I have trouble remembering anything before the age of 4, but apparently when I was little, about two, I helped build my house. My house was not yet finished, and I stood, in all my toddler glory in what is now my parents’ bedroom. This room is large, with a tall vaulted ceiling seventeen feet high. It must have looked absolutely enormous to me back then. Now I find the room uncomfortable, I’m used to sleeping in a cave, my room pitch black even at high noon due to my shades. My parents’ room has far too much light...
ReplyDeleteAt any rate, I stood, in all my toddler glory, in what would be my parents’ bedroom, surrounded by scrap wood. I apparently wanted to help, so my uncles, who own a construction company and built the house form the ground up, told me to go throw the scrap wood out the window. And so I did, happily toddling around, and picking up bits of wood, and gleefully chucking them out the window. I was as hyperactive as I am now, and spent more or less that entire spring day doing this. For some of it I was probably alone up there, and so I question the judgement of any supervising adults around the house. I believe my mom had gone out to lunch.
As my mom tells it, she found me up there when she returned, throwing wood bits out the window, onto the scrap pile below. She looked on in horror, wondering how she was ever going to get rid of the enormous pile of scrap wood down below. I was quite proud of the four foot high pile of wood down below [I had believed, back then that it was all my doing]. I seemed much more content with manual labour back then, as opposed to how I feel now, as a seventeen year old slacker high school student. My two year old intellect was satisfied with the idea of gravity.
Throw some wood.
It falls down.
I was quite content with that. In fact I wish things in life were that simple. Gravity, I now understand to be a complicated series of equations that I almost understand, to a degree. Back then, it was simpler.
Throw some wood.
It falls down.
It must have been great being two.
No relationships.
No school.
No pressure.
Even such things as manual labour were amusing. I envy my two year old self.
Throw some wood.
It falls down.
A mini memoir, by Matt Smith
Of all the stories my family tells about my early childhood, the most significant and re-told one was the time I managed to kick a ball into the chandelier when I was only 1 year old. This story is particularly special because it represents a defining moment in my life; a momentous breakthrough in my abilities. Overlooking its comedic outcome, the mere feat accomplished says more about my character and who I would become as a person than most of my other stories. I do not actually recollect this incident, but my family has told me the story so many times that I can vividly depict what it was like. When I was but a toddler, our family was in the process of moving back from Florida where we had lived for four years. While searching for a house in Massachusetts, we were temporarily living with my grandparents. It was early spring and I was just starting to talk. During one night around dinner time, I made my way into the kitchen holding a beach ball after watching a soccer game on TV. Inspired by what I had seen on TV, I yelled "Kick!" about three or four times, and proceeded to kick the ball as hard as I could. Somehow, I actually managed to hit my grandparents chandelier while everyone was eating. Luckily for me, nothing was broken or damaged in anyway. Everybody was astonished and at the same time laughing as my grandmother said "Well it looks like you are going to have another soccer player in the family." I feel as though this story was preserved in my family because soccer is such an important aspect of my life today. My parents love to tell me how they knew I would be good at soccer due to my first words being "kick." They also remind me of how shocked they were that I managed to kick it that hard since I was only a year old. Aside from the foreshadowing qualities, it also reflects me as a person by showing how I have the ability to achieve anything if I try hard enough. An example of this was when I made the varsity team my freshmen year. Almost everybody didn't think I even stood a chance; but I made it my goal to earn a spot on the roster. Ensuing an intensive summer of training and condition, I started at the freshmen tryouts where I was called up to varsity that same day. After a long few days of tryouts, I found myself still in a small group of people left in the locker room after many people had been called out. The coach came in and announced that everyone left had made the team and congratulated us on the accomplishment. At this point I was overcome with joy and anticipation for the season ahead. Succeeding this achievement, I quickly earned a spot on the starting roster after proving my abilities part way through the season. I found this story relevant because comparatively, these were both significant events in my life which represent something attained through a struggle. I have proved people wrong on numerous occasions after being told I couldn't do something, or I wasn't good enough. For me, both the baby story and the soccer one provide a sense of motivation and inspiration. If one looks hard enough, they can deduce that they are capable of much more than they think. All one has to do is set their mind to achieving their goal. I had seen the pros on TV and made it my goal to kick it as they did. It broke everyone's conventional thought on my abilities and represents a significant moment in my life.
ReplyDeleteWhenever relatives visit and stories of my childhood are conjured up, there is always certain to be a story detailing my obsession with soccer. Whenever such a story is brought up all the adults smile and look at each other, as if remembering a different century and world altogether. The usual setting for the stories is the basement of our previous house in Baltimore, Maryland. There, my dad and I would kick a miniature Nerf soccer ball into a raggedy plastic goal for hours on end. Back then the hard; cold, uncarpeted floor was the furthest thing from my mind. For in my mind I was always in a different place anyway. I always envisioned playing in the World Cup for the U.S. or England in some foreign country on a perfectly trimmed grass field in front of hundreds of thousands of cheering fans. Tirelessly I would run around, trying to mirror my favorite player, Michael Owen. The unfinished basement wasn’t the only place my obsession was vented, far from it. I kicked every pebble and every stone on every street I walked on. The challenge being to have enough control to keep the stone on the sidewalk and away from the road where the stone was lost under a multitude of rapidly traveling automobiles. The game ended altogether when my mom got tired of my veering off of our path to find another “ball”. When this happened I often took out my imaginary soccer ball and pretended to fire shots at imaginary goals and glide past invisible defenders,. People would give me all sorts of funny looks and smile but I wouldn’t take any notice at all. After all, I was far too busy scoring the winning goal of the world cup or breaking a prestigious record to care what was going on around me. I would hit the fake ball off of everything around me, noticing the difference in how it bounced back off of one object as opposed to another. Even when not pretending to be playing or actually playing the game I love my mind was full of thoughts of the beautiful game. When watching soccer with my family I would bombard my dad with questions I had about the history of the game. “Has Brazil ever played Uganda? “Has Honduras ever played the Netherlands?” I would ask. “I’m sure they have” would be my dad’s typical response. And of course now, being thoroughly intrigued, I had to follow up with, “What was the score?” How much did so and so win by? Was it a good game?” My dad would just look at me and smile and pat me on the head and say, “I’m sorry, I don’t know.” After the game was over often I would go downstairs and get as many VHS tapes of old soccer games my little arms could carry. I would stuff a tape into the VHS player, climb up onto the couch, and watch the players I tried to imitate every time I played. I would watch the same games over and over again hundreds of times, each time as exciting and memorable as the first. Of course, seeing all these iconic games and players made me itch to go kick a ball around. I would leap off the couch and sprint to my dad and tug on the sleeve of his shirt and beg, “Please, please will you please play pass with me outside in the driveway please, please?” And my dad would cheerfully respond, “Just give me five minutes and I’ll be there, go out and I’ll meet you there.” I would then sprint to the garage, carefully select from a crate teeming with little spheres of all sorts of colors and designs, and commence kicking the ball off the garage to myself. After what seemed an eternity my dad would come jogging from the house sporting his running shoes and the fun would begin. Back and forth, back and forth the ball would go until it was so dark we had each lost sight of our target. “Time for dinner,” my dad would say and for as little time as I could get away with spending at the table the soccer would be put on hold. Already halfway out of my chair I would ask (as politely as I could manage) “May I please be excused pretty please with a cherry on top?” Halfway through my parents response I was already halfway down the stairs to the basement, ready to upset Brazil and win another World Cup title.
ReplyDeleteMy relatives always tell this story about my brother whenever there's company around that would be embarrassing to him. I wasn't born yet, but my brother was 1 years old at the time. My family, including two uncles and grandfather were going on a road trip up to Quebec. As they were packing up and getting ready, my father obsessively persisted that every goes to the bathroom before they leave so they don't have to make any unnecessary stops along the way, or at least until later on. He hounded my uncles, grandfather and mom until he finally gave in. They started driving, and about 20 minutes in, there was a rather unpleasant smell in the air. My brother had pooped himself, and this wasn't an ordinary poop. There was so much poop that it had began dripping out of his diaper and onto the car seating. I hadn't been born yet, but I can still picture my old car, my old family's wacky fashions, and my brother little baby body. It's almost unbelievable to now think of it as a story and not a memory. But whatevzzzzzzzzzzzzzski
ReplyDeleteOver the years the same story has been told to me over and over again. Though I cannot actually remember any of this story at all because I was so young, I can clearly imagine it all of it happening. This story has been told so many times that it does in fact feel like a memory. When I was just around five or six years old, my family and I had just bought an adorable new puppy that I was completely obsessed with. All I did everyday was play with it from morning to night. We ran and chased things and I even tried to teach it to fetch. I had no idea how to teach a dog to fetch though so it was really just us running around and finding a lot of things. I would never even give the poor puppy time to relax because I loved it so much and I would never want to stop playing. Unfortunately unlike me, the puppy did not have so much energy. Whenever it tried to sleep or rest, I would cry because I thought it was sick or hurt. I just did not understand that he needed a little break. It got to a point where the puppy almost did get sick because it was not getting enough rest. Eventually I was given a rule that I could only play with him for a few hours each day. This news was incredibly upsetting for me because I got bored so easily and I loved that puppy so much. My patience did not last very long though and even after my “daily puppy time” ended I would just sneak away too keep playing with him. My family tells this story a lot because they think it is funny. Also, they just really like to point out that I have just a little too much energy. This story sticks to me because it shows how oblivious I can be about myself at times. Without even knowing it I was being overly excited all the time and exhausting everyone else. I love this story because it gives me a true indication of how my family sees me. They love me despite my exhausting ways, so much so that they are even proud of it. That is why I do not mind how often this story is repeated to me.
ReplyDeleteThroughout my life, my older sister and I have been very close. She always plays tricks on me and for some reason I always listen to her. Often it was the case that although her tricks were light-hearted, she would end up feeling very guilty about them, even though I was too young to even know what was going on. Most of the time my parents never found out what things went on in our backyard, for example the numerous times she told me to eat sand out of our sandbox, and of course I willingly did. This memory I am able to remember faintly on my own, along with the help from my parents retelling the story numerous times. One day in the summer, my sister was mad at me because I had eaten the cupcake she was saving in her room (apparently she had been saving it for a while). After I ate the delicious confetti cupcake, I went outside to play in the sandbox. Morgan (my sister), came out a few minutes later carrying a magazine, and came into the sandbox to play with me. She told me, “look Maya I made up a new game! It’s called Hopsy-degopsy!” She then explained the rules of the game to me: She would tear off pieces of magazine and roll them into balls and then throw them at me. My job was to eat all the magazine balls. So, my sister ripped off piece after piece from the magazine, and I continued to eat all of them. After a while, the magazine was gone. I had fun playing the game, but apparently it was all part of her revenge plan for eating her cupcake. After eating all of that paper, I felt thirsty, so I went inside to get an apple juice popsicle, and then went back out to the sandbox. Morgan saw mine and thought that was a good idea, so she went inside to get one too. Apparently I had eaten the last popsicle too, though, which only made my sister more furious. So, she opened our sliding glass down opening to the backyard, threw the empty box of popsicles outside, and then slammed the door and locked it. I remember going up to the glass door and yelling for her to open it, but she just sat on the couch and read her book, so I walked away and lay down in the grass (where I think I fell asleep). A little later, Morgan looked out the glass door and saw me lying face down in the grass. She started freaking out and ran to find my parents, screaming and crying that “hopsy-degopsy killed Maya!!!” They, of course, had no idea what hopsy-degopsy was, so Morgan explained that she made me eat the whole magazine. When they came outside to look for me, I had already ventured further into our backyard into a forest, where I sat happily eating lots of blueberries that I had discovered growing on a bush. After a while, I got full and made my way back to our backyard where my parents were still searching and looked very worried. They saw me, my mouth all purple from the blueberries, and started to freak out even more thinking that it was purple from the magazine somehow. Morgan was still inside crying that hopsy-degopsy had killed me. I started smiling and told them no, it was just blueberries, and so they realized everything was fine. Morgan, however, still felt really bad thinking that she had almost killed me, so she ran up to her room, and brought down a bag full of old cupcakes and candy that she was saving and gave them to me. Although I don’t completely remember this story on my own, I think it’s really sweet because it shows the closeness of the relationship between my sister and me. Even if we fight and she does something to punish me, in the end she still really cares about me and we’re still really close. That’s why I love this story, because the message is even if you fight with someone or they try to hurt you in some way, in the end they still really care about you and are there for you.
ReplyDeleteOf all the stories my parents have described to me over the years this is by far the favorite. I was always very social when I was little and sometimes maybe I got sick of my own friendliness. But anyway, it was a chilly December evening and my mom had invited some friends over. It was a little girl (Julia) and her mom; I had known them forever (my 18 months of existence) and we had always gotten along well. Whether I was particularly friendly with her, I don’t know, but my mom loved to sit and schmooze with her mother, so this play date became a fairly regular occurrence. We had been playing in the family room for about an hour and a half and it was probably approaching naptime. I walked into the kitchen hoping to get some mommy time, but, the conversation was well into the second cup of tea; it was safe to say that they were not planning on finishing soon at all. Being the very accommodating toddler that I was (always thinking of others before myself) I abruptly yanked on my mom’s pant leg. The lack of response I received indicated that I was going to have to take this situation into my own hands. I went back to the playroom where my friend was diligently playing with my favorite stuffed animal: a blue monkey that made a ridiculous chew toy sound when you shook him. Now, this was a problem, because it is one thing to come to my house and play with my toys, but, when you pick up “Mr. Munk Munk” and begin to parade him around like he is some sort of Barbie doll, you cross a very well defined line. We had now passed into DEFCON 1 (war had come to our front door). I decided I would simply end the play date, which, while easier said than done, needed to happen soon. I tried to recollect the procedure for how they would usually leave when it was normally time to go. I decided that [as my mother called it] meltdown time (which is when it is clear that a nap is needed and tears could and probably would be shed) was not the best way to get them out because then I would actually have to nap. So the joint chiefs and I decided that there was only one escape plan. I gingerly walked over to the closet, collected my guest’s jackets and quietly placed their jackets on their respective laps, and subsequently proceeded to hold open the door for their departure. My mother immediately cracked up, I didn’t understand what was so hysterical about holding a door open so I remained at my doorman post until they got the message. After they had said their goodbyes, my mom asked why I wanted them to leave so soon, I replied in muffled fragments: “Not me, Mr. Munk Munk want go.” With a chuckle and a hug we went back into the family room to play until dinner time.
ReplyDeleteI have heard that story so many times that it has almost blended with my actual memory, but I think the story has been told and retold because my mom finds it so funny. When I consider the events that took place on that day, I can’t help but wonder if that was the reason that we don’t see them more than once a year anymore. Whether my innocently unaware rudeness was responsible for the separation or not, I don’t think I would have changed a single thing that day. The laughs after hearing the story or the jokes my parents make about how I can really “clear a room” are moments that I enjoy and wouldn’t trade in for anything.
Everyone shares family memories together over the course of one's life, some of which stand out more than others. There are oviously countless memories that I have shared with my family over my life, some of which I was too young to even remember. Some of the best memories I have had with my family have been during a birthday of one of my family's members. One of the earliest birthday stories that I have ever heard, happened in 1995, during my very first birthday party, while I was eating my birthday cake. After I opened my presents, a teddy bear which I named Walter and a Winnie the Pooh mobile for my crib, it was time to eat birthday cake. I was sitting in my high chair, surrounded by my family members, the center of attention. They had just finished singing “Happy Birthday” and I had blown out my candle moments aftterwards. I was eating my cake, and I guess being a one year old I felt as though I needed to eat my cake with only my hands. I was shoving cake into my mouth handfuls at a time, until my siblings noticed and thought they should humiliate me while they had the chance. They would ask “Where are your ears, Jake?” and I would reply as the dumb one year old I was and take my cake covered hands and cover my eyes with them, not knowing where my ears actually were. Laughing histerically, they would continue asking “Where is your nose, Jake?”, “Where are your eyes?” and “Where is your mouth?”, until my whole face was covered with chocolate frosted angel food cake. I was just laughing uncontrollably the whole time, spreading cake all over my face. It lasted a couple munutes until my Dad stepped in and stopped the madness. The whole incident was caught on camera and is now one of our most cherished home videos. It is funny to watch the video, and look at my family way back when, when we were all so young. Although I have no physical memory of ever doing this, it has been retold and re-enacted by my family countless times that I remember physically doing it. I also think that because it was caught on video, it helps me visualize it actually happening in first person. I am glad that it was caught on video, because it will help keep the memory alive so it will not be forgotten. Because of the re-enactments and repeated stories, it feels as though I remember actually smearing cake all over my face. I obviously do not remember, because I was so young, but it feels like I do. I do not know why we can not remember things beyond a certain age, I think it is quite interesting. It could be because our brains are not developed enough to be able to remember things.This story is a classic funny story about being a dumb one year old baby playing with food. I think this story could possibly reflect the person I am today, a goofy kid who likes making jokes and getting a laugh out of people. I try to make people feel at ease by making jokes and keeping a good mood. I think this story fits my personality pretty well. And with the video, the stories, and the memories, this funny incident has been cemented in my brain forever. I know I will never forget about this story. It is one of my favorite stories about my childhood, and one that will never be forgotten.
ReplyDeleteI am sure that as a child I had many experiences, which I have since forgotten. There is one in particular that has been described to me so many times that it is now un forgettable. It starts inside a Denny’s where my parents, aunts, uncles and all of my cousins were eating breakfast on our way to our lake house in Canada. I must have been about 3 or 4 years old and at this point in my life I was not what you would call Slim. After polishing off a solid helping of pancakes and eggs, I became a bit rowdy. One of my favorites after meal activities in a restaurant was to take a walk. This was a simple expression of freedom that allowed me to explore the building. I got up from my seat and began to roam the restaurant like I was mapping out some vast territory. Almost immediately I was attracted to the two sets of doors that lead outside. Going outside was too un-resistable for me to refuse. I walked out the front door and immersed myself in the garden. Sooner or later it was time for me to go back inside and meet up with the rest of my family. This is where the story gets good. I saw my relatives through the glass doors and without thinking walked up to them. Instead of pulling the door towards me I half ran at the door, trying to build up enough speed to swing the mighty door wide open. Unfortunately my efforts were futile. I hit the glass door with a THUD and fell backwards, dumbfounded. Luckily my chubby core had absorbed the blow and I was un- injured. Completely disregarding what had just occurred, they watched in horror as I made another attempt at the door. The outcome was strangely similar to my fist attempt. Running full speed this time, I collided with the door just below the metal handle and was knocked backwards by my own sheer force and richote. Although I was thoroughly confused, I still remained un harmed by the glass door. My parents rushed to the front door and opened it wide as it swung towards me. If I could remember this, that point exactly is when the light bulb should have lit up right above my head. Sadly, there was no light bulb and I rushed inside to rejoin the party. After hearing the story well over a hundred times, I have come to the conclusion that the door was indeed a PULL door instead PUSH. In my defense, I wasn’t a great reader and the sign was probably well above my head anyways. There is a message to take away from this story though and it is one of pure determination. Although I didn’t get what I wanted on my first try, I had proved that I had the commitment to keep trying. I like to think it takes guts to run into a door full on, but even more guts to try it again. This story benefits me every day of my life because it reminds me never to give up even when it seems like I am up against a brick wall, or pair of glass doors. My antics make for a great story and I will admit that running into glass doors is very comical. My biggest regret is that the impact from the door wiped this memory from my brain and that I cannot picture it happening from my own point of view. Overall this was one of my greatest childhood moments and I hope that I never will forget this story that has been told to me so many times.
ReplyDelete