These are my earliest memories. I used to think of the toothpaste one as the earliest of all, but now I am not so sure.
I'm in a station wagon with my Mom. She's just parked at what was then Dart Shoppers World, and I'm crawling around in the back. (This was the 70s. Little kids did that back then.) She asks me to remind her to get toothpaste.
I'm in pre-school at St. Paul's Church. Me and David Gatewood are making mud pies in foil pie tins. We press our hand prints into them, and I think they are left out in the sun to harden.
I have this memory of a belly dancer coming to the pre-school at St. Paul's Church, but I don't remember anything about it. Just a memory of a young woman in blue belly dancer's clothes. I wonder about this memory. I had no idea the Episcopalians were that liberal back in the 70s. Well, it was the 70s.
I have this memory of riding down hill in a child's seen on the back on my Mom's bicycle. I'm scared spitless. I think it's in Maine, but it might be going to the Gordon Avenue Library.
I'm young enough that my Mom is giving me a bath. Something incredibly painful happens to my penis. This memory came to me while stepping into the shower during Off Cushion Practice. Just that one image and the flash of pain. I'm afraid to think more about this memory. I have the feeling that trying to remember more about it will create a false memory. In any case, I think this incident has something to do with why I Don't Like Bathing.