I Am Born.

Why Not Begin At the Beginning?

Why do I write these pieces? Maybe you’ve been wondering that yourself. I write them to remember. Other writers write for other reasons, I know. I’ve written for other reasons other times myself. But now for me, it seems it’s always to remember. Even when it’s fiction, it’s not made up – it’s remembered, with other names. Or sometimes, the same names. Remembered.

Even with heartache and pain – and with joy too – these are the memories of the life I lived, all that’s left of that life, the gossamer remnant of a life now almost – not quite – but getting closer to it – done. I’ve lived a unique life – we all do – but not a remarkable one. No histories of my time will be likely to include my name.

So I write them to remember, and to say, even if no one hears, I WAS HERE.  

You read them because … But who am I to make pronouncements about that? Only you know that.

First I wrote, “If you read them …” – then deleted “if.” Because you are reading, now. That makes a point of contact between us at this moment, no matter if it’s an instant after I wrote, or a hundred years. At this moment, as you read, we touch, we share a spark – like scuffing across carpet – scuffing across life.

“To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe) on a …” Wednesday, at 5:35 PM. My birth certificate tells me that. 8 lbs. 3 oz. I’ve put on some weight since then. My mother had been in the hospital for 16 hours before delivery – so a long day’s work. I don’t remember the details, one reason I’m now obsessed with writing down what I do remember. How thoroughly even the personally important memories fade with time.

I assume that some screaming may have transpired leading up to 5:35 PM, and that some crying followed. That seems to be true as most of our lives begin, judging from the movies.

In what may be only a curious coincidence, the doctor delivering me, Lt. Col. Winton T. Stacy MC, was an alum of my own alma mater, as it would become 22 years later. Since I was the first of my family to graduate from high school, not to mention college – in living memory anyway – and since the school was far, far away and I knew nothing of it, not even the name, until just months before I went there, I wonder if he might have whispered it into my ear as he slapped my rear at 5:36 (or so) PM that Wednesday?

And what about that “MC” thing? How ego-uplifting to think that my beginning might have been grand enough to warrant a Master of Ceremonies! So perhaps that wasn’t a slap I remember (and felt!), but applause. (One “authority” has suggested it means something as prosaic as Medical Corps - but I prefer my interpretation.)

If my mother did scream during those 16 long hours, it would have been out of keeping for her. I don’t remember her ever screaming the whole time I knew her – that part of the time I can remember. She was given not so much to fire as ice when things did not go to suit her – one of the qualities I inherited from her – not one of the best. But she could also laugh, sometimes to the point of tears, when things were more to her liking, and I inherited that too, and remember that more fondly now.

I wonder if my father was there that day? I didn’t ask when I could have, and it’s too late to do so now. I rather think he wasn’t. It wasn’t so much a thing then for fathers to attend such events, even when accompanied by MCs and applause. And, besides, a man much, much, much too much given to drink – one of the qualities I inherited from him – not one of the best – he had the habit of marking momentous events in his own way, time and place often not disclosed. I flatter myself that the birth of a son might have counted as momentous for him. Though to be fair, I have no evidence at all that he might have been “celebrating” in his own way that day. I wish I knew, but I never will.

One family member who most certainly was NOT there was my much older (by 17 years!) half-brother, first son of my mother. He was away in another state planning to be married on the Friday, two days later (I don’t know the time). My mother missed the wedding. And, sad to say, she missed mine too, since she’d died by the time I could marry my mate, so didn’t have the pleasure (I’m assuming it would have been pleasure) of seeing either of her sons tie the knot. Come to think of it, my father missed the weddings of all his children too – he had at least two more in addition to me, a son and daughter by different mothers – and so between them four children (at least; for my father there’s no knowing for sure) all married, and neither of my parents there with any of us. Life doesn’t always unfold the fairy tale way.

I don’t remember a lot distinctly from those early years. I have flashes of baths in kitchen sinks. We had a tub, I’m sure – it was 1951 or 2, after all – but the bathroom in winter was a freezing place, too cold for such a delicate angel as I. And I remember dark, early morning sleepy-eyed walks (more likely, carries) to the childminder’s house, where my mother left me on her way to work, and where I was put right back to bed – not me alone, I think I recall. And I remember the joy of tiny milk jugs that came with my father’s coffee at the café near where he worked, always for me, since he drank his coffee black. And a pony; mine, he said, like the milk jugs, but I only got to ride it once. And journeys to a far-off place called Clovis, where Aunt Kate had a “Mexican” café; journeys on the Trailways bus, and a man in the bus station once giving me a nickel. When my mother objected, he said, “If I didn’t have any more than that, I’d throw it away anyway.” A lesson in generosity, perhaps, though not in fiscal responsibility.

The earliest distinct memory I have involves a boy. Are any of us surprised by that? A boy who lived across the street when I was five or six – my elder by a year or two at most. What he taught me is enough to make one blush, one who already vaguely knew they were among the “nasty” things some adults bruskly admonished against. I shudder now to think how he might have learned so young the lessons he knew to teach.  I’ll hope he was just imaginative and precocious.

If I stay sitting here at the keyboard, looking at the blinking cursor on the screen, it’s likely that more early memories would eventually come into hazy half-focus. But maybe these are enough memories for this time – maybe too many for one or two of them. Enough scuffing across life for now.

Earlier, to get things going, I lifted a famous line from a famous novel by a famous writer and mangled it to make it my own. He first published his book in 19 serial parts in 1849/50. What with inflation, mine is already many more parts than that. But to end, maybe I’ll mangle that writer again, to come up with what might be the title to my own memoir (mostly fiction, of course):

“Chapter 1: I Am Born. Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show …” We shall see.