First memory

The first memory I have, ever, is the day my sister was born.

If you look at the picture, you will notice that the house has brick front steps. Back in the day, those steps were cement, and there was a railing on the right side. Also, there were bushes that had these weird red gooey things that were, so we were told, poisonous. DO NOT EAT.

At any rate, I was just a little over three when Sue came along. The story we are told is that she came FAST -- my dad was speeding toward Cooper Hospital and, upon being pulled over by a startled cop early in the morning, was given an escort to the hospital where she arrived shortly thereafter. It was Father's Day. The joke was that Bob wanted a tie -- he got Sue.

My memory is this: my mom was trying to get out of the house to the car (maybe it was green) and I was holding the hand of my grandfather heading down the stairs.

A detour: I learned how to walk with a towel over my head. Maybe I knew that, later in life, I would be a profound klutz and it was better not to see anything. Whatever it was, my early steps were made with a kitchen towel pulled over my head.

Walking is not my strong suit.

Those steps were a bit frightening, even with the railing and trying to rush, as we were, made the walk that much more uncertain. And I was excited.

Whatever it was, when I close my eyes and think about that day, I am holding my grandfather's hand for dear life, chugging down the stairs. My little red shoe slipped off, into those poisonous bushes. "We'll get it later," I remember him saying.

I don't ever remember wearing red shoes again. I wonder if, when my parents cleared out the shrubs and replaced them with the beautiful flowers and natural grasses, they found my missing red shoe?