My earliest memory took place when I was somewhere in my twos, the very age Natalie is right now. In the dim evening lamplight I squatted on the living room floor looking at homemade flash cards created by my father. Although his handwriting wasn't neat, he carefully drew capital letters with blue permanent marker on white index cards. Then Daddy lay on his tummy on the floor next to me, pointing out letters. As he pointed to each letter I named them. "H-O-U-S-E".
"What's that spell?" he would always ask. This time something clicked in my brain and I absorbed the fact that those letters spelled a word. "House!" he told me triumphantly and I gazed at the letters, memorizing them, filing them away in my memory as a representation of the home I loved. I am told I could read well by the age of three but I remember at the time I would have gladly traded it for a friend my own age. It would be several more years before I would have the chance.
In the pools of lamplight, the shag rug was a soft yellow, fading into gray away off in far, shadowy corners beyond the reach of the light. The lamps had been made by my father from some salvaged antique milk cans and their tall cylindrical shades shed a quiet warmth into our lives in the peaceful evenings before I was tucked into bed in the chilly dark of the back bedroom where I lay and listened to my parents talk quietly, the buzz of their indistinct voices blending into the comfort of the still night.
The season must have been winter for this activity because we lived on a farm, tucked deep in the wheatfields of central Idaho, so if it was summer my father would have been working still, far past my bedtime and into the murky dusk.
During the day at this age Mama and I kept each other company. For a while she babysat another little girl who happened to share my birthday, although she was a year older. I don't think she continued coming to our house by the time I had reached three, however, because I have no memory of playing with her. Instead my memories involve inventing games for myself to keep busy through the long, quiet days.
Eschewing dolls as boring, I gravitated toward building blocks and cars, building sheds and roads for them. All I knew was the farm so I played farm using toy horses and hay, hauling them around. While I played, Mama gave me a sandwich baggie (the old kind with a fold-over top and no zipper) full of Cheerios. As I toted it around dropped Cheerios disappeared into the thick shag, blending and hiding as if they had been magic, only to be found later by the noisy Kirby vacuum cleaner which roared around the house almost daily cleaning up the rogue cereal. I am sure that much of my time was spent following my mother around as she did her housework, chattering non-stop to her about everything on my small mind. People would comment on my ability to speak clearly at age two, but I'm convinced it was simply a result of the extensive practice I got. I don't think I ever stopped talking.
Mama would fix us lunch and we would sit companionably at the round dark table. She would usually have the record player going and I absorbed her taste for John Michael Talbot and Keith Green.
Every day, even in the cold, we would go down to the little shed where Mama kept Gypsy, her pet horse. She'd feed and water her and make much of her. When the weather was nice she'd throw on a saddle and bridle and we'd ride off through the graying stubble of the silent fields. I had mixed feelings about these rides. Getting out of the house and into the chilly wind was exhilarating but the fact that she made me ride in front of her on the pommel of the saddle was so painfully uncomfortable that I was usually thankful the ride was over. As we trudged up toward the shop and house from the horse shed, the big, black farm dog, Josh, would rush to greet us. Although he was the most polite dog I have ever met, Josh's size still intimidated me and one sweep of his eager tail could knock me over. I would edge closer to Mama.
On these walks, I remember being fascinated by the gravel on the road and the bigger pieces of rock that comprised the driveway of the big blue shops and outbuildings. Sharp gray rocks spread in every direction, no two alike. I would pick up a couple to collect each time, much to my tidy mother's dismay. I am sure that as soon as I wasn't looking she'd toss them back out to the driveway where they belonged.
On Sundays we would drive into Craigmont, the nearest village, which boasted a population of almost 600 souls. We always ended up at a small Assemblies of God church which stands out in my memory as having tall, narrow stained glass windows along one wall of the sanctuary and no children my age. I do remember the first time I tied my own shoelace successfully, sprawled awkwardly on the floor by those windows, the warm, mellow colored light flooding across the floor beside me.
My days were spent with my mother, either at the house or at a neighbor's. Once a week or so we would make the long drive to Lewiston to get groceries and other necessities. Strapped in my car seat I would watch the trees flick past along the canyon walls, waiting for the landmarks of train trestle bridges and the colored balls on the high-up power lines. On a rare day, Daddy would take me with him for a short time. Standing carefully well-behaved on the concrete shop floor next to the warm wood stove, I'd breathe in the scent of motor oil and sawdust, smells I lovingly associated with my father who enjoyed the mechanical aspect of farming. He'd put up with my constant chatter while he worked on a motor or cut wood for some project. He was always making something. In the inventive spirit of the 70's, he made our end-tables from old cable spools, sanding and varnishing them, then hauling them into the house and setting the milk-can lamps on them. This project happened before I can remember because those spool tables had always been a part of my life, squat and round, with a hole in the center that would eat my toys if they got too close. Once my father, as a special treat, took me with him on the combine during harvest. Sitting with him in the dusty cab, we drove slowly around the golden field, watching the whirling header dance as it grabbed the stalks of wheat in its long teeth and pulling them into the machine's big underbelly where it chewed and digested the kernels. He'd take me back to the hopper and grab a handful of dark golden wheat kernels, giving them to me to chew until they broke into glutenous gum. The big white trucks came alongside us and collected the loads of wheat, lazily matching our slow pace as the header continued to whirl. The dusty kernels spilled into the truck which headed off with it load to deposit into the round, silver bins sitting in front of the big shop.
I see all of these memories in short flashes, pieces the size of a small child's attention span. We moved from the farm shortly after my fourth birthday, which gives a reference. The memories come quickly, snapshots that include the sound of a laugh, the smell of baking bread or the feeling of peace I felt when everything was right with my small world. My mother created that peace with her carefully planned routines and tidy ways. Generally in those memories, I was sitting on the floor, just as my daughter does now, playing on the rug that would hide a million Cheerios.
