Timeline

Timeline

Three Years Old.

The gray skies of Monterey, California.  The roaring waves and rising ride.  I remember the squirrels, and I fed them.  This is my first memory.  They came right up to me.  There is a tattered and bent picture of me feeding the squirrels, somewhere.  I got caught in a wave; the tide was pulling me away from the beach.  My mom was screaming, and my Dad ran to rescue me from that ominous ocean. 

Five Years Old.

Kindergarten.  My Grandpa Rasmussen took me to school on his light blue moped.  It was spectacular, that moped.  The California air blew through my short, dark hair.  I rested my cheek on his arm.  All the kids watched me.  I felt so special.  I was the new girl at school.  I was shy, painfully shy.  And I was so afraid of her – the librarian.  She was in a wheelchair, she didn’t have any legs.  I cried and shook with real, tangible fear.  My teacher tried to pacify me, having me help prepare a snack for the class, pieces of banana dipped in something. . . cereal, granola?  They were in white cupcake liners.  I can still feel that fear.  I can almost even taste the bananas.  I was the spotlight of the week.  I got to bring home that beautiful teddy bear I wished so much was mine to keep.  It wasn’t.  But I held it in my arms as I rode home with my Grandpa, on the blue moped.

Seven Years Old.

We were on top of the slide on my swing set in the backyard.  We went to church earlier in the day.  My mom wore a white dress with vertical stripes; the fabric was shiny in one strip and dull in the next.  She was pregnant with my fourth sister.  My friends said something mean about her.  I don’t remember what.  Tears instantly stung my eyes.   I turned away, pretending to look over the fence.  I was so hurt inside.  I loved her.  I cried, when my friends finally left.  I cried, under the apple tree, right where Ginger is now buried.

Eleven to Twelve Years Old.

The majesty of summer.  Those scorching summer days that gracefully melted into magical summer nights.  We played softball in the cul-de-sac, and yelled “CAR!” when a car approached, and then “GAME ON!” when the car passed.  The sun setting signaled the beginning of what was known as nightgames, the quintessential culmination of everything wondrous about summer.  Playing hide-and-seek, freeze tag, capture the flag.  It was when everyone else went home that the truly priceless and cherished memories were born.  Laying on the trampoline, together.  It was round and stood above ground, with blue faded pads covering the metal springs.  We laid on our backs, hands behind our heads and feet crossed, without a single sadness, stress or care in the world.  We stared up at the purplish-black night sky, littered with glittering stars, and wondered.  Wondered which boys liked us, where we would go to girls camp, what class we could be in when school started again, would life would be like when we grew up.  Would we still be friends?  Would we live far apart?  What would happen to us?  It is those sacred and perfectly pure moments that prick my heart with such glorious tenderness.  The innocence.  The hopefulness.  The freedom.  The wonder of it all.