I didn’t expect to write again until after the holiday but I just caught that I’ve been tagged by the not so ordinary ordinary girl with a memory meme. The rules are:
1. Describe my earliest memory where the memory is clear, and where “clear” means I can depict at least three details.
2. Give an estimate of my age at the time.
3. Tag five other bloggers with this meme.
Alright, I guess I’ll play along. Most of my earliest memories involve running from my mother who had a wooden spoon in her hand. Yes, there are times when an Italian mother looking for you with a spoon in her hand is not a warm, pleasant memory of pampering and delicious food. No, this was an instrument of dispensing justice as well as gravy. Obviously nothing has changed in me, for I still to this day stir a reaction in people that makes them want to reach for things to throttle me with.
Well the memory of mine I’ll share today was when I was about 3. Mind you, I was a relatively inexpensive kid as far as entertaining went because instead of gobs of toys, I was content with art supplies. The downside of that is when my inner artist drove me to go beyond my boundaries in order to fully express myself. Such was the case one day with a bottle of Elmer’s glue. Ah, I still remember the fascination I had watching it pour out. Well why not combine this excitement with all the other things I enjoy? Made sense then. So I proceeded to squeeze out the glue over everything in the living room. As I just finished drizzeling it over the last of the piano keys, I was suddenly interrupted by the most terrifying scream I have ever heard in my life. When I turned to see it emanated from my mother, and seeing the look in her eyes, I knew instantly my passion for Elmer’s glue was going to cost me. I hopped on my horsey (a plastic horse with wheels) and tried scooting away but it was too late. SLAP! It was so fast. I think I heard it and saw the red outline of my mother’s hand traced in red on my fat little thigh before I even felt it. Oh but when I felt it, yeesh! Apparently my deed called for such an urgent response that there was simply no time for the wooden spoon, the kitchen instrument I had grown to develop such a love-hate relationship with.