Once upon a time I was lying on the floor, watching Sesame Street. At least, I think it was Sesame Street. Barry walked into the room. I wonder what it looked like from his eyes... me, there, on the floor, my hands under my head, my braid sticking out from behind my head... spread across the floor... the perfect pulling rope.
Either way, he pulled it.
Hard.
I screamed really loud.
I still wonder why he felt like pulling it, and how his 3 year old self managed to put SO much strength into that yank!
Granted, his 2 year old self used to find amusement by lifting up the front of the really big couch, so maybe I should wonder about that before wondering about the thought process behind yanking on my braid. I'm sure it was a very tempting looking rope.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Friday, October 7, 2011
Be Careful What You Say Around Your Gullible Children.
Oh, and one funny memory I had while writing the last post.
I have no idea how old I was. I think Barry was a baby, which would make me 4 or 5. Or maybe Barry was 2 and I was 6. Anyway, Clarke and I had this routine where we would cuddle with Mommy and Daddy every morning. We would wake up at about the same time, but Clarke would always get up first, and make a mad dash for Mommy and Daddy's room so he could have the prime snuggle spot - between Mommy and Daddy. I would hear his feet hit the floor, and even though my mind was functioning at roughly the speed of glue, I was out of bed and trying desperately to attain that prized spot. As it happened, usually I got the spot between Mommy and the edge of the bed, of which I was always in danger of plummeting off. It was also much colder at the edge of the bed.
Anyway, one of these mornings, we were all snuggled up, at least one of us had been informed that we had dragon breath, and it was about time to go downstairs and eat breakfast. This was a special morning, because we had donut holes!
Mommy laughed mischievously said, "Ooh, let's hurry up and go eat all the donut holes so Daddy can't have any!"
Daddy rolled his eyes, or otherwise responded with some non-verbal cue that I entirely missed.
A few minutes later found me downstairs, looking at the plastic container of donut holes on the table.
I was quite perplexed. We were supposed to eat them all before Daddy could have any, but nobody else was coming downstairs. What if Daddy came downstairs before Clarke and Mommy and Barry? He would see them, and there would be no stopping him!
I waited, listening. People were moving around, teeth were being brushed. Was that the shower?
We were running out of time! Soon, Daddy would come.
Well, there was nothing left to do but...
The first handful of donut holes was wonderful! They were so yummy, all fluffy and glazed with white frosting. Mmmmmm!
I kept eating. After about a third of the box, I was all full. But, there were still SO many donut holes, and if I didn't finish them ALL, Daddy would get some. Dutifully, I stuffed another few in my mouth.
Oh, my stomach ached! I didn't know HOW I could POSSIBLY eat the whole box!
Suddenly, I came up with a brilliant idea! Nobody likes to eat something that somebody has already chewed on! If I took a single bite out of EVERY remaining donut hole, I wouldn't have to finish the box, and Daddy wouldn't want to eat any of them. I set to work. One little bite, two little bites, three, four... nibble... nibble... done! Every single donut hole had a bite in it. My work was done.
I hadn't quite finished, but I had done my best. When Mommy finally came downstairs, I brought her the box of bitten donut holes.
"Mommy, I tried to eat them all so Daddy couldn't have any, but I got really full, so I took bites out of all of them so he wouldn't want any."
To my great shock, Mommy reached into the box, took one of the nibbled donut holes, and popped it into her mouth.
And sadly, I can't remember any more of her reaction than that.
I have no idea how old I was. I think Barry was a baby, which would make me 4 or 5. Or maybe Barry was 2 and I was 6. Anyway, Clarke and I had this routine where we would cuddle with Mommy and Daddy every morning. We would wake up at about the same time, but Clarke would always get up first, and make a mad dash for Mommy and Daddy's room so he could have the prime snuggle spot - between Mommy and Daddy. I would hear his feet hit the floor, and even though my mind was functioning at roughly the speed of glue, I was out of bed and trying desperately to attain that prized spot. As it happened, usually I got the spot between Mommy and the edge of the bed, of which I was always in danger of plummeting off. It was also much colder at the edge of the bed.
Anyway, one of these mornings, we were all snuggled up, at least one of us had been informed that we had dragon breath, and it was about time to go downstairs and eat breakfast. This was a special morning, because we had donut holes!
Mommy laughed mischievously said, "Ooh, let's hurry up and go eat all the donut holes so Daddy can't have any!"
Daddy rolled his eyes, or otherwise responded with some non-verbal cue that I entirely missed.
A few minutes later found me downstairs, looking at the plastic container of donut holes on the table.
I was quite perplexed. We were supposed to eat them all before Daddy could have any, but nobody else was coming downstairs. What if Daddy came downstairs before Clarke and Mommy and Barry? He would see them, and there would be no stopping him!
I waited, listening. People were moving around, teeth were being brushed. Was that the shower?
We were running out of time! Soon, Daddy would come.
Well, there was nothing left to do but...
The first handful of donut holes was wonderful! They were so yummy, all fluffy and glazed with white frosting. Mmmmmm!
I kept eating. After about a third of the box, I was all full. But, there were still SO many donut holes, and if I didn't finish them ALL, Daddy would get some. Dutifully, I stuffed another few in my mouth.
Oh, my stomach ached! I didn't know HOW I could POSSIBLY eat the whole box!
Suddenly, I came up with a brilliant idea! Nobody likes to eat something that somebody has already chewed on! If I took a single bite out of EVERY remaining donut hole, I wouldn't have to finish the box, and Daddy wouldn't want to eat any of them. I set to work. One little bite, two little bites, three, four... nibble... nibble... done! Every single donut hole had a bite in it. My work was done.
I hadn't quite finished, but I had done my best. When Mommy finally came downstairs, I brought her the box of bitten donut holes.
"Mommy, I tried to eat them all so Daddy couldn't have any, but I got really full, so I took bites out of all of them so he wouldn't want any."
To my great shock, Mommy reached into the box, took one of the nibbled donut holes, and popped it into her mouth.
And sadly, I can't remember any more of her reaction than that.
Digging and Dreams
Once upon a time, I tried to dig a hole in the sand. It was a beautiful hole. Maybe two inches deep by four inches wide. Not bad for a 3 year old with a plastic shovel. Then I looked over at the hole Clarke had just dug. It was roughly the depth of the Marianas Trench, complete with the entire Pacific Ocean inside.
Okay, okay. It was probably about 4 inches deep. But still! It was deep enough that there was water in the bottom, while mine was just a dip in the sand.
"Look, Mommy! I dug clear down to the ocean!" His voice was bubbling with pride and excitement. Mommy took a picture of him, holding his shovel, looking up at the camera.
I looked down at my own hole. Why couldn't I dig down to the ocean too? Then I could show Mommy how I had the ocean in my hole, and I could be as proud and excited as Clarke.
I stuck my shovel into the dip I'd made. The square ends caught on the side of the hole. It wouldn't go any deeper. I tried, but I could only get a few grains of sand at a time.
Useless. I just couldn't get my hole clear down to the ocean.
Disappointment, jealousy and embarrassment all welled up inside me. That's the part I remember the most - the feelings. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't measure up to Clarke's work. I don't know why this memory sticks out so much, or why I remember the emotion so strongly. Maybe it was the first time I'd ever felt the sting of a lost competition. Maybe it's because it happened in connection with a much more memorable event.
I was about 3 1/4 years old when that happened. Our family spent some time in a beach house on the Oregon coast. I know exactly how old I was because it was on that vacation that my mom realized she was pregnant with Barry, and he was born less than 2 weeks after I turned 4.
I remember bits and pieces of that vacation. I remember a couch in the front of the beach house, and I remember the room we slept in. I also remember the nightmare... or whatever you want to call it.
Clarke and I had the exact same "nightmare" while we were there. It was the Big Bad Wolf. That was one story villain that we played with all the time. We had this tape (yeah, remember cassette tapes??? You mean, it wasn't in mp3 format? Whaaaat?) that had The 3 Little Pigs on it, and we used to listen to that tape, and act out the story, and play pigs and wolves a lot. Anyway, we both woke up. I remember looking up, and seeing the Big Bad Wolf in the room, walking in a circle. I'm not sure who started screaming first, but Clarke saw it too. It stayed there until Daddy came in and got us out of bed. After that, I remember Daddy holding me while reaching for Clarke, and I turned and looked at the wall. The wall turned into a giant, long hallway, and I saw the Big Bad Wolf walk down the hallway, and turn a corner.
Scared. Me. To. Death.
Holy crap, that moment takes the cake for scariest memory of my really early childhood.
The Big Bad Wolf actually featured in my nightmares (real nightmares, not whatever that was) for a long time, though I'm not sure if it was before that moment, or after. It was one of 2 really bad nightmares I'd have as a really little kid. Either the Big Bad Wolf would be in my room, or there would be a tyrannosaurus rex. Usually the tyrannosaurus would just roar or otherwise be there, and I'd wake up, jump out of bed, and scoot my little buns into Mommy's room as fast as my tiny toes could carry me. Then it was the, "Mommy, I had a scary dream," "Okay, climb on up," routine where I'd get snuggled up all safe and sound, conk out, and then miraculously wake up in my own bed the next morning, wondering how I got from Mommy and Daddy's bed to my own.
Anyway, that was that vacation. I don't remember any more of it - sadly only the negative things stuck out for that particular event. I'm sure I had lots of fun, though. The beach was always one of my favorite places in the world.
Okay, okay. It was probably about 4 inches deep. But still! It was deep enough that there was water in the bottom, while mine was just a dip in the sand.
"Look, Mommy! I dug clear down to the ocean!" His voice was bubbling with pride and excitement. Mommy took a picture of him, holding his shovel, looking up at the camera.
I looked down at my own hole. Why couldn't I dig down to the ocean too? Then I could show Mommy how I had the ocean in my hole, and I could be as proud and excited as Clarke.
I stuck my shovel into the dip I'd made. The square ends caught on the side of the hole. It wouldn't go any deeper. I tried, but I could only get a few grains of sand at a time.
Useless. I just couldn't get my hole clear down to the ocean.
Disappointment, jealousy and embarrassment all welled up inside me. That's the part I remember the most - the feelings. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't measure up to Clarke's work. I don't know why this memory sticks out so much, or why I remember the emotion so strongly. Maybe it was the first time I'd ever felt the sting of a lost competition. Maybe it's because it happened in connection with a much more memorable event.
I was about 3 1/4 years old when that happened. Our family spent some time in a beach house on the Oregon coast. I know exactly how old I was because it was on that vacation that my mom realized she was pregnant with Barry, and he was born less than 2 weeks after I turned 4.
I remember bits and pieces of that vacation. I remember a couch in the front of the beach house, and I remember the room we slept in. I also remember the nightmare... or whatever you want to call it.
Clarke and I had the exact same "nightmare" while we were there. It was the Big Bad Wolf. That was one story villain that we played with all the time. We had this tape (yeah, remember cassette tapes??? You mean, it wasn't in mp3 format? Whaaaat?) that had The 3 Little Pigs on it, and we used to listen to that tape, and act out the story, and play pigs and wolves a lot. Anyway, we both woke up. I remember looking up, and seeing the Big Bad Wolf in the room, walking in a circle. I'm not sure who started screaming first, but Clarke saw it too. It stayed there until Daddy came in and got us out of bed. After that, I remember Daddy holding me while reaching for Clarke, and I turned and looked at the wall. The wall turned into a giant, long hallway, and I saw the Big Bad Wolf walk down the hallway, and turn a corner.
Scared. Me. To. Death.
Holy crap, that moment takes the cake for scariest memory of my really early childhood.
The Big Bad Wolf actually featured in my nightmares (real nightmares, not whatever that was) for a long time, though I'm not sure if it was before that moment, or after. It was one of 2 really bad nightmares I'd have as a really little kid. Either the Big Bad Wolf would be in my room, or there would be a tyrannosaurus rex. Usually the tyrannosaurus would just roar or otherwise be there, and I'd wake up, jump out of bed, and scoot my little buns into Mommy's room as fast as my tiny toes could carry me. Then it was the, "Mommy, I had a scary dream," "Okay, climb on up," routine where I'd get snuggled up all safe and sound, conk out, and then miraculously wake up in my own bed the next morning, wondering how I got from Mommy and Daddy's bed to my own.
Anyway, that was that vacation. I don't remember any more of it - sadly only the negative things stuck out for that particular event. I'm sure I had lots of fun, though. The beach was always one of my favorite places in the world.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
First Post - Explanation, Possibility of Narcissism, and First Story
So, I've decided to start compiling my life story. Most of this is gonna be memories from childhood that aren't recorded in my journals, and a few events that are, assuming I think they're applicable. Why? Well, because I've been wanting to write down my life's story since I started studying history, but can never really make myself do it. It's that whole needing an audience thing. Now, I'm not actually telling anybody (except possibly my Mommy, who can serve as my fact checker) where to find this blog, unless they ask and I want them to know, so that I don't look like a total narcissist.
I have yet to decide whether or not I am a total narcissist for allowing this blog to even exist.
Anyway, I'm going to have another blog for stories relating to the history of the world, and family stories and stuff like that. This one, however, is completely my own life's stories.
So, let's start with my earliest memory. Pretty sure I was 2, which would make the year 1988 (since I was born December 23, 1985). When I was a teeny, tiny toddler, we moved to Hillsboro, Oregon. Before that we'd lived in... Fir Grove? I can't remember. It was someplace nearby, in a house we were renting. We had lived in Oregon since I was 3 months old, when my dad got laid off from his job in Colorado, but we had always rented. This time my parents bought a plot of land in a neighborhood right next to a really big field. We were on the corner of Jamie Drive and Josephine Drive.
In order to save on money and gain some mad carpentry skills, my parents decided to build their own house, rather than hire a company to build it. This was a brilliant idea, because my dad was a professional... computer programmer! His natural gift for carpentry was a real asset to us the day he sliced his arm open from wrist to elbow on some random piece of building material that a professional would have looked at and said, "Hey, that looks sharp. I think I'll keep it away from my radial artery."
Lucky for us, a couple of my mom's brothers are carpenters (Uncle Barry and... Uncle Bob? I know Uncle Barry is, but I'm not sure about any of the others... add that to the list of facts to check). They came from California or wherever they were living (not even gonna check that one. They originated in California. That's good enough for me) and helped us get the hard parts done.
I was 2 at the time, and Clarke was 3. I don't know how often we were at the construction site, but I remember bits and pieces of it. I remember seeing lots of mud, and a basic frame of a house.
I also remember hammering in a nail. I think my dad let Clarke and I "help" to keep us busy. He took us WAY high up into the upper reaches of the house (which means we were probably about 3 feet above the ground... on the first floor... I was a toddler, okay?) hammered the tip of a couple nails into a board, and gave us the hammer. Clarke's went all the way in. Pretty sure mine folded in half, because I remember being horribly frustrated that my nail didn't look anywhere near as pretty as my big brother's. That frustration that I couldn't do things as well as Clarke carried on to just about everything - drawing, tying my shoes, digging a hole in the sand at the beach (which would be my next earliest memory), rollerblading, bike riding, and knowing all sorts of random facts about life (like if your foot falls asleep, you can get the numb, tingling feeling to go away by flushing it in the toilet... which turned out to be him just trying to see if he could get me to flush my foot in the toilet... and then laughing his butt off when I actually did it). I was also a bit frustrated that I couldn't fly as well as he could. I mean, he jumped off the couch, flapped his arms like wings, and flew all the way across the room, through the entry, into the family room, through the kitchen and touched the oven! I was really sad when I found out he'd done that and I wasn't there to see it. Actually, nobody was there to see it, but he emphatically affirmed that he had performed such a miracle. Pretty sure he was six for that one.
Anyway, that's my earliest memory - hammering a nail into a piece of wood on our new house when I was two. Pretty soon I'll add the next one - the beach house when I was 3.
EDIT:
I have yet to decide whether or not I am a total narcissist for allowing this blog to even exist.
Anyway, I'm going to have another blog for stories relating to the history of the world, and family stories and stuff like that. This one, however, is completely my own life's stories.
So, let's start with my earliest memory. Pretty sure I was 2, which would make the year 1988 (since I was born December 23, 1985). When I was a teeny, tiny toddler, we moved to Hillsboro, Oregon. Before that we'd lived in... Fir Grove? I can't remember. It was someplace nearby, in a house we were renting. We had lived in Oregon since I was 3 months old, when my dad got laid off from his job in Colorado, but we had always rented. This time my parents bought a plot of land in a neighborhood right next to a really big field. We were on the corner of Jamie Drive and Josephine Drive.
In order to save on money and gain some mad carpentry skills, my parents decided to build their own house, rather than hire a company to build it. This was a brilliant idea, because my dad was a professional... computer programmer! His natural gift for carpentry was a real asset to us the day he sliced his arm open from wrist to elbow on some random piece of building material that a professional would have looked at and said, "Hey, that looks sharp. I think I'll keep it away from my radial artery."
Lucky for us, a couple of my mom's brothers are carpenters (Uncle Barry and... Uncle Bob? I know Uncle Barry is, but I'm not sure about any of the others... add that to the list of facts to check). They came from California or wherever they were living (not even gonna check that one. They originated in California. That's good enough for me) and helped us get the hard parts done.
I was 2 at the time, and Clarke was 3. I don't know how often we were at the construction site, but I remember bits and pieces of it. I remember seeing lots of mud, and a basic frame of a house.
I also remember hammering in a nail. I think my dad let Clarke and I "help" to keep us busy. He took us WAY high up into the upper reaches of the house (which means we were probably about 3 feet above the ground... on the first floor... I was a toddler, okay?) hammered the tip of a couple nails into a board, and gave us the hammer. Clarke's went all the way in. Pretty sure mine folded in half, because I remember being horribly frustrated that my nail didn't look anywhere near as pretty as my big brother's. That frustration that I couldn't do things as well as Clarke carried on to just about everything - drawing, tying my shoes, digging a hole in the sand at the beach (which would be my next earliest memory), rollerblading, bike riding, and knowing all sorts of random facts about life (like if your foot falls asleep, you can get the numb, tingling feeling to go away by flushing it in the toilet... which turned out to be him just trying to see if he could get me to flush my foot in the toilet... and then laughing his butt off when I actually did it). I was also a bit frustrated that I couldn't fly as well as he could. I mean, he jumped off the couch, flapped his arms like wings, and flew all the way across the room, through the entry, into the family room, through the kitchen and touched the oven! I was really sad when I found out he'd done that and I wasn't there to see it. Actually, nobody was there to see it, but he emphatically affirmed that he had performed such a miracle. Pretty sure he was six for that one.
Anyway, that's my earliest memory - hammering a nail into a piece of wood on our new house when I was two. Pretty soon I'll add the next one - the beach house when I was 3.
EDIT:
Alright, after reading through this, my mom has offered her version of the story, complete with lots of extra details and some fact corrections, including a date correction. Turns out I was actually younger than I thought. Here is the fantastic writing of my amazing mother, Rebecca Woods (plug for the soon-to-be-famous author!):
Cute! I shouldn't be reading this... I mean I'm kind of DROWNING under deadlines right now... but I'm sitting here, LAUGHING, gasping for air and tears very nearly rolling down my face over the part about Clarke flying clear to the kitchen. Dang... you poor thing... you totally inherited my sense of amazing gullibility, didn't you?
Okay, corrections and suggestions.
If it were to be a blog based on narcissism, you should probably name it something more along the lines of: "I love me!@Savannah.com". :-P
As far as general corrections go, Fir Grove (Officially titled "Joseph Smith's Fir Grove"... really, yes!... and no, no connection to the church) was located in Hillsboro also. We spent the first month in Beaverton, in a hotel, looking for a house to buy... which we almost did buy (that gray one I pointed out while we were there), before chickening out at the very last minute and renting - again - in the Fir Grove neighborhood. The hotel in Beaverton is where I promptly gained 40 lbs in ONE MONTH from merrily eating out at restaurants for 3 square meals 30 full days in a row. YUM! And this after gaining only 3 pounds during my pregnancy with you. Amazingly, I never noticed the new weight until the moving van delivered our bathroom scale to the house in Fir Grove. The restaurant and hotel was also the point where I ate the jalapenos, thus effectively convincing you that I was trying to poison my innocent baby through my breast milk. (Another note about Fir Grove... there was an actual grove of giant evergreen trees at the end of Fir Grove Loop, the street we lived on. I used to take you kids for walks down there all the time - exercise... - and the entire neighborhood sat up on a hill above the most beautiful meadow I'd ever seen! Wow, gorgeous! Of course, once the rains started it turned into a flood plain and a giant lake during the heaviest wet weather. It was really kind of an amazing place to live. Anyway, that part was cool. I wonder if you would remember the grove or the meadow, if you could see it again.)
Also, dad was injured as he duly stepped backwards onto the end of a plank/board, not being supported by floor joists, and fell, thus landing his wrist over said sharp ductwork protruding from the subfloor of the house, in an attempt at catching himself [the plank was there because we hadn't done anything more than secure the floor joists into place and so, in order to be able to stand where our floor was going to be, and fully be able to brag about our amazing new house that our amazing - cough cough - family had come to help us build - totally out of the goodness of their hearts - cough cough... we had to place 2x12's across the joists, so as not to have to balance on them and risk falling... thus allowing something dreadful to happen, like, say... slicing a wrist open on a piece of exposed ductwork.] . He cut his wrist only, slicing it effectively through. The BLOOD was spurting out about 3 feet and then running quite nicely all down his arm to his elbow, where it then flowed to the ground under the house (pretty sure it's still there) before a visiting neighbor (and minister) could grab a filthy rag to press over it... but the actual cut was only on his wrist area. So sorry to squelch the facts of your creative writing there. Oh, and the only reason I just happened to be there... was delivering lunch to every one.
Also, I hope this doesn't blow your story, but I was the general contractor. I got everything organized, the companies called to come pour the foundation, the plumber and Heating guys to come do the sub-floor rough in work and the bulldozers for excavation... preparing the site for Uncle Barry, cousin Barry Jay, Nana, Auntie Joni and Jaime, tool belt wielding Chuck Baldwin, who immediately assumed he was in charge. He was my first experience with the metamorphosis which comes over a man as soon as he dons a tool belt. It was amazing! The others had all volunteered to come help us frame the house, thus saving us a substantial amount of money on subcontractors. They all came up the week of 4th of July, with Uncle Barry flying in on a Thursday, I think, before weekend 1987. I need to check the dates on this. I'm pretty possitive it was 4th of July though, I can't think of any other holidays 4 months before we finished the house. Anyway, I also forgot to mention the part where someone chucked his hammer into the main floor bathroom which was closed in as our supply room, and broke a bunch of the windows that were in there! At close to $300/each, it was just one more thing gone expensively wrong. The whole adventure, while starting out overflowing in charity, ended up being a financial disaster!
Uncle Barry was supposed to be teaching US (me included) how to frame houses. However, being that a construction site was "just no place for babies", I got evicted from the site to the house in Fir Grove with you guys, where I sat and stressed out over the whole project while not being able to participate in it. I was only allowed to show up at the work site for brief periods of time bringing lunch along with me. TOTAL RIP OFF!!!
Anyway, with the MAJOR exception of me being banished from the project and not getting to be there with everyone for the excitement of actually building the house I had worked so hard to plan, it worked out really well and we got everything framed... up to the second floor. At this point, the weekend tragically ended and Uncle Barry had to leave, leaving us with no framer, no crew and very little knowledge of what to do, so the project came to a screaming halt. Dad then informed me (somewhere around Monday) that he didn't have any idea what to do and went back to his desk job. I began to basically, quietly, freak out.
After a lengthy panic session, I eventually called Uncle Bob (yes a carpenter and yes both living in Cali at the time) at Nana and Uncle Barry's suggestion and BEGGED him to come finish framing the house. He was in between projects at the time and came up after a month or so (might have been 2 or 3 weeks... it felt like a year!) to help us. He left before the job was done, once again leaving us with the job not finished and no crew or knowledge of how to complete the roof.
We eventually had to hire a stranger who put us so far over budget that we had to renegotiate the loan amount for the house. Thus, tragically, we completely defeated the whole initial purpose of having family help us frame the house so we could save money. It's actually more ironic than you apparently ever knew. :-) That initial weekend we were so blissfully unaware of the fact, though.
We moved into our new house, miraculously, in October of 1987, a mere 4 months after starting the project, despite all the setbacks. By comparison this house took nearly 7 mos. You were about 1.75 years old when we moved in. You were hammering that nail in early July 1987 (not 1988) when you were a mere toddler of 1 1/2. Excellent early memory btw!
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