first memory

This morning, listening to the radio, the question was asked, "What is your earliest memory?" They went on to say what the top first memories are. A list which ranged from gifts and celebrations to dentist appointments. I have always been aware of my first memory. Before I tell you about it, I must say that I find it oddly comforting. Even I have a difficult time understanding why. My first memory could easily have been my last moment....

In 1972, I was three years old, and a hurricane caused flooding in Elmira, NY, where my father worked. His office was unusable, and the Holiday Inn in Horseheads became home base until the clean-up was completed. Long after I began recalling the day, I learned these details, which is what made me realize it was a memory, and not simply a strange dream. I could never figure out why we would be at the Holiday Inn....

So many times growing up, I heard stories about Agnes from teachers, preachers, parents, strangers. Agnes was a turning point in the collective conscience of the region, and even here in Camp Hill, PA, I sometimes hear mention of the storm and it's aftermath, although my connections here are a younger crowd, so the memories are more shared history than personal observations. I learned this morning from a case study of Agnes that Elmira and Wilkes-Barre, PA, sustained the worst urban flooding associated with the storm. Again, this explains so much....

Agnes occurred early in the hurricane season, and the flooding in late June meant that Dad's office was closed for most of the summer. Along with use of guest rooms for office space, the Holiday Inn allowed use of the hotel facilities, which for us meant use of the pool. I clearly remember that the pool was crowded--certainly more crowded than I have seen a hotel pool in my grown up life. In my memory, as a three-year-old, I see more people than I am used to.

We went to the pool that day to have fun in the sun: to swim, sunbathe (back then it was a far more acceptable practice), and relax. I remember toddling around with my sister, and faceless people larger than me--not necessarily strangers, but people not specifically important to the memory. I remember being in the pool with my Dad, and being tossed in the air, scooted around in the water, and jumping to him. I remember feeling perfectly content and safe. Especially feeling safe and comfortable. I remember the sun being bright and clear, not a cloud in the sky. And I remember clearly that I didn't just fall into the pool; that I decided to step in. And I even remember being aware of the fact that Dad was not in the water for me to jump to. I remember that the water was a fun place to be. I remember the sensation of sinking through the water, and being surprised that the water did not catch me.

The next thing I remember is seeing Dad's watch; a beautiful watch. I don't recall the band, the brand or even the color of anything but the watch face: a white analog watch face--the kind that needed daily winding. Seeing the watch meant that Daddy was there, that there was no reason to resist being lifted out of the water, out of the pool, carried to the towels we had laid out, and covered with one of them. I was not at all afraid. I then remembered Mom saying, "You went in the pool with that watch on?"

That's where the memory ends. When I hear a question about first memories, this is what flashes through my mind, and my heart. And when I get to the end of the clip, tears sting my eyes every time. There was a time when the tears were free-flowing because of the questions they brought. Today, and for quite a few years now, the tears are less painful, more reassuring.

A watch face. A memory.

Love.