I almost put this slip back. “Too big,” I thought, “not to mention too personal.” But how do you write a biography without getting personal? The size of this task could be daunting. I see my life as a factor tree and I am well out onto some branch or another, other paths left long and irretrievably behind. 
I also see my life as a game of sorts where each play leads me toward my own unique outcome, no takesy backsy allowed. In the words of a First Aid Kit song, My Silver Lining,
“Regret, remorse, hold on, oh no I’ve got to go
There’s no starting over, no new beginnings, time races on
And you’ve just gotta keep on keeping on
Gotta keep on going, looking straight out on the road.”
We just play.
Reflections of Life
www.topxgames.com
I may stay on this topic for a few days, picking and choosing through time. Let’s start with the red nasturtium. I think I was about three years old, maybe a little younger.
I was visiting my Aunt Patsy’s house from the apartment in Milton; we did not yet live across the street from her. My aunt had an apple tree in the center of her yard, surrounded by bright, many-colored nasturtiums. I happily ran outside and stuck my nose in a beautiful red flower. I’m sure I screamed. Within a minute, my eyes had swollen shut, the world had gone black, and I hurt like never before in my short memory. People were putting ice on my head.
After that, I inspected all flowers, bushes and trees. I never trusted nature as a child. Who knew what lurked in the crevasses?
A new category of danger had entered my world. The idea of danger had solidified in my mind. I knew what danger looked and sounded like. I hate buzzing noises. I’m still a bee woose. At sixteen, a girlfriend and I abandoned my car on a hill to wait for a bee to leave. We thought it was pretty funny at the time — she at least had a valid allergy excuse — but I have always known I’d have to steel myself in a similar situation on a busy road. I’m confident I’d manage without doing anything stupid, but …
As my girls got older, I could see I was creating a new generation of bug wooses. Every so often I’d feign bravery to help them out, but I did not manage the consistency needed to convince them that small life forms, weighing about 1/544,310 what they did, were not a threat, given the absence of allergies. For one thing, I grew up without depth perception and there was always a real chance I’d swing that fly swatter and miss. I’d been known to miss a 2 inch millipede.
I used to give the boy across the street a dollar to kill bees and wasps for me. No doubt he thought this was the best deal in world. I’m sure I was creating some unfortunate, sexual stereotypes too. What!? A buzzing bug!? Is Ted home? Where is Captain America when we need him?
I’m older. I’m wiser. I’m saner. I can swing that swatter if it’s essential. But that bee in the red nasturtium may be my first solid memory and I became a considerably more careful girl after that brief, dark encounter.
For readers: What is your first memory? Or one of your most powerful early memories? That might be today’s journal or calendar entry.
