Do you ever sit and think about the first memory you ever had of your life? The place where it all began? It’s those snapshots of where you started, tucked away in the album of your mind, all sepia-toned, and a little fuzzy in the details?
When I think back on my early childhood, I remember being part of a pair. Being born a twin certainly had its advantages when it comes to memories. It’s a little like looking in a mirror, like having my past reflected back to me in the eyes of my sister, and sometimes I wonder if those things really did happen to me, or if they happened to her and I’m just transposing myself onto the experience.
We lived in San Jose, California for a year, back in 1961. My father was an electrician by trade, and it was his idea to drag us bag and baggage to California, in search of work. My mother has always maintained that my sister and I sang Happy Birthday for the entire car ride across Death Valley, something I can neither confirm, nor deny. Apparently, they stopped at a gas station shortly before heading across the desert from Las Vegas and were given the opportunity to purchase a portable air-conditioner for the car. This was an apparatus about the size of a breadbox, where you filled it with ice and used a pull-cord to shave off chips of snow that flew into the car. My mother explains that one half of her body was always cold, where the other half burned mercilessly!
I remember palm trees. I remember the motel where we stayed at and the pool just outside our door. I can recall being able to walk straight out our motel door and right into the pool area, and my mother always made sure we had our lifejackets on even if we were just going out to play. There are glimpses of an uninspiring motel with hard edges lurking in my mind, and of comfortless furniture, and my mother having headaches that turned into homesickness. We were a long way from St. Catharines, Ontario, and I think my mother really missed her family.
My sister and I had our fourth birthday in California. Our birthdays were always Halloween-themed, since we were born so close to the holiday. There are photographs of us standing side by side, same toothy grins on our faces, wearing the same black and white costumes meant to resemble Siamese twins, and even though it was the end of October, we weren’t wearing coats, or even a sweater. Just those funny little pajama-costumes with the wrap-around belts.
There are faded photos of all of us at Disneyland, but I have no memories of being there. It’s funny to think that something as eventful as a daytrip to the Happiest Place on Earth holds not even a single, relevant image in my mind.
And there are home movies, of course. My father spent the better part of our childhood standing behind the movie camera, documenting our lives, but never quite joining in. When I think about him back in those days, I remember his hazy outline disappearing behind a blazing glow of lightbulbs aimed at our faces as he filmed our reactions to the surprise of the day. He was a ghost hovering in the background, witnessing our lives through the lens of his camera. Maybe that’s just what fathers did back then. Maybe that’s what was expected of dads in the early 60’s. Film the family having fun. Maybe he didn’t want to miss any of it, and this was his way of committing these family milestones on celluloid, to be reviewed over and over again in fleeting images of the past. I have to thank him, though. Without those movies and photographs, my early childhood may have been lost to the past. So, thanks, Dad, for the memories.