HOMEGROWN: Before I Could Talk
Some might have preferred knowing me before I could talk, before I had strong opinions and started using banned vocabulary.
Apparently, as we age, memories seep in from earlier flashbacks in our lives. I am increasingly aware of times when I was hearing, touching, seeing, exploring objects I could reach with my limited stretch and clumsy crawls. I had no words yet. I was taking everything in, not spitting it out. Well, maybe sometimes. Note: taste and smell are not on the sensory list of memories.
My visual collage and sound track soundtrack of those days is as clear now as it was more than 80 years ago. I can hear the clickety-clack of my stroller wheels crossing the redwood plank sidewalks from our home as my mother rolled me downhill from our tiny home in Arcata to the Plaza. Uphill was more of an adagio than the allegro of downhill.
I discovered the pleasure of the floor furnace early in the morning. And the shock and fright as it warmed my feet and burned grid marks on my soles.
The inside of my crib is very familiar. I spent a lot of time there, day and night. The earliest test of my talent and use of fingers was when I discovered I could peel the paper off the wall from inside the crib. Apparently, I didn’t like the fading flower print. More likely, I was looking to escape.
From that trapped sleeping quarter, one night I heard loud thumping sounds from the other side of the wall. I was young and hadn’t read any news stories about scary events. I learned later that the toilet was overflowing. My father grabbed an axe and chopped a hole in the floor to drain the water under the house instead of into the kitchen and living room. He was a pianist not a plumber! Our entire tiny house would have flooded.
When I was lifted out of my crib and had freedom to explore, I generally ended up under the Steinway grand piano that filled the living room. I don’t remember a sofa or chair. Family and visitors walked in the front door and straight to the kitchen.
My play area under the piano was better than a card table with a sheet over it. Now I realize how much I appreciate cathedral architecture from looking up at the massive grand piano structure. Crawl under one. The infrastructure is magnificent.
I spent hours listening to my father play while watching his feet move on the pedals. Other times, my mother joined, and the sound of her cello filled the room. Eventually, I was able to “help” — my parent’s bedroom had a pump organ squeezed against the wall. I could push the pedals to power the sound. My first experience with control!
The memory of the end of each day is strong — when my mother put me back in my crib, hummed lullabies and stroked my eyelids.
Julie Fulkerson draws on a past for which she is eternally grateful (although sometimes she has to fill in the gaps with best guesses). Email: Juliefulkerson@mac.com.
