Memory Journal: "Ice Water!"

The books and photos are down and the boxes are piling up. “The Move” to Chicago has officially begun.  With the impending loss of 300 square feet, I’ve been exploring the dark crannies of dusty plastic storage pins and narrow dresser drawers, purging the never-used and under-sentimentalized trinkets I tucked away a long time ago.  But when I found one item obscured in the darkness underneath the kitchen sink, I couldn’t bring myself to throw it in the donation pile next the yoga weights and VHS tapes.  My mom gave it to me for my first apartment five years ago, but that’s not why it’s sentimental.  I’ve never used it, but that silly little yellow plastic contraption always brings a big smile to my face because it reminds me of a fun family memory - one that my parents and I still reference often.

When I was little, I liked juice.  Apple juice, to be precise.  I liked apple juice, and my parents liked me.  So whenever I was lounging on the couch in the basement family room watching Sesame Street and my sippy cup slurped empty, my spoiled little self would hold out my arm, my cup in hand, and loudly call out to my parents in the kitchen upstairs, “JUICE!!!” - an Annie line now lovingly parodied by some members of my family.

I eventually outgrew my proclivity for apple juice and transitioned to the healthier beverage choice of plain ‘ole ice water.  But my preferred method of beverage delivery has stayed the same: I like it when people get it for me.  My husband now carries that burden.  Indeed, if there’s one question you’re guaranteed to hear at our house at least once each evening it’s “Sweetie, can you please get me a glass of ice water?”  Unsurprisingly, he’s started referring to me as the "Signs girl," referencing the movie character who mysteriously leaves glasses of water all over the house.  

Like crazy Mel Gibson in that scary movie, my parents were the original ice-water providers.  I’d regularly call out from my bedroom upstairs, “C’YOU GET ME A GLASS OF ICE WATER PLEASE?!”  And they’d go all Jimmy John’s on me and deliver a glass of cold filtered ice water in a frosty mug freaky fast.  Even when I’d come home from college or now when I visit from out of town, they always offer to get me a glass of ice water.  It’s a simple act, but it feels - and tastes - like home.

One warm evening when I was in high school, sitting on my bed doing homework / practicing viola / listening to my new Coldplay CD, I felt a familiar parch in my throat.  I looked to my water bottle: it was empty or worse, luke warm.  Time to make my familiar nightly request, so I called out to parents downstairs:

“Yes, Annie?” My mom responded, sounding farther away than normal.
“Can you please get me a glass of ice water?”
“What?”
They must have been two floors down in the basement because they couldn’t hear me well.  So I turned my head to face the door and tried again: “Ice water, can you get me some please?”
“What?!”
I sighed as my teenage stubbornness took over, “I need ice water, please!” I shouted louder.
“Okay! I’ll send your Dad up!”
“Okay, thanks!”

Freaky fast.  My Dad knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

He bounced in with both feet landing on the ground simultaneously.  Before I could even hope that he didn’t spill any water on that jumpy entry, I realized that he wasn’t holding a glass in his hand.  No, my parents mistook my request for ice water for something else.  My Dad hurried upstairs and jumped into the room like a mock superhero because they thought I was in the midst of a winged assault.

“What are you doing?”  I asked with a smile on my face.
“I thought you said you needed this.”  He said, hanging the plastic object in defeat.
“No, ice water!” I laughed.

We haven’t stopped laughing since. So what was he holding in his hand, and what did I find under my sink yesterday?

A fly swatter.  

Memory Journal: Atonement

I found myself back in Chicago last week.  Returning from (a tasty Chipotle) lunch with friends downtown, I rode the El back to Lincoln Park.  Sitting on the scratchy blue fabric chair and pondering the spelling of the graffiti etched on the window across from me, I reminisced about my travels on another big city’s public train system.  As colorful billboards flashed by in front of the Chicago cityscape behind them, and as Brown Line trains across the track flashed by in a torrent of noise, a vivid image flashed in front of my eyes: a memory of the time I saw a young woman sobbing on the London Tube.

I don’t know how I ended up sitting where I did that evening.  As I had already learned by mid-semester of studying abroad, open seats on the Tube are usually a precious commodity in old London Town.  With a long commute ahead of me, I must have made a B-Line for the first patch of bare fabric I saw on that train.  I guess I didn’t realize that the seat was empty for a reason.

But it’s my seat now, and it should be comfortable.  It’s well-cushioned in a well-lit car of very well-funded public transportation system.  Yet, I feel like I’ve boarded the Discomfort Express because seated on my right, her hip touching mine, a young woman - probably my age - is holding her head in her scarf, trying to hide her sobs from the rest of the commuters that evening.

But she can’t hide them.  That undeniable sniffling and sharp inhaling of true heartbreak seems to echo down the corridors of this long train car, interrupted only by the passing of a train heading towards the place we left.  I sit still, paralyzed by her sadness.  Bundled in my green peacoat and black gloves for winter, I grip the sides of my oh-so-American North Face backpack on my lap and stare at its zipper, whilst my mind stares at the crying girl beside me.  I don’t even think to wonder why she’s upset, especially in such a public place.  Her sadness blinds my thoughts, covering every nook in my mind with a warm blanket of concern.  No one deserves to be so sad.

I want someone to say something to her.  Someone less shy than I am.  A mother or a father perhaps could comfort her in kind British accent with just the right words to assuage her ambiguous sorrows.  So, angling my eyes up gently away from my lap, I search the faces of my fellow commuters.  But all I see are winter caps and red noses tucked into New York Times bestsellers.  

No one seems to care, but I’m sure everyone who hears her does.  True sadness pulls at even the stiffest of heartstrings, but our tongues are tied with doubt about what to say and twisted by the defacto No-Talking Rule of the London Tube.  Indeed, in London, even your mind is flooded with concern, the British respect for privacy will lock your jaw shut.

I’m not British, though.  I’d love to have the charming accent, but I’m very happy with my American sensitivities.  So, as the train slows down and quiets into the next station and warns the passengers to “mind the gap” ahead, I straighten up my back and turn my shoulders toward the girl on my right hiding her face.  As my fellow commuters see me shifting in my seat, they peer out from behind their books and newspapers.  I place my hand towards her knee in a gesture of comfort to let her know that not everyone on this train is indifferent to her sorrow.  And I untangle my tongue from the prickly thorns of doubt to say some kind words:

“It’ll get better.”

The crying girl peeks out from her whispy purple scarf.  I see her bloodshot eyes, her tear-stained cheek, and the little upturn of the corners of her mouth as she gives me a little smile of thanks.

Except I never saw her eyes that night.  Nor her cheeks, nor her mouth.  She never smiled at me.  She kept her face behind her purple scarf because I never leaned over with words of kindness or a hand of comfort.  I kept my eyes locked on the zipper of my backpack on my lap, blending into the polite British public and trying to ignore her sobs by focusing on the dull white noise of the rumbling train.  As we pulled into my station I minded the gap and walked off the train, leaving her behind me with an empty seat of cold bare fabric next to her.

Ianisms

When Ian and I had HBO last year we liked to watch The Ricky Gervais Show on Friday nights, which features Ricky Gervais, Stephen Merchant (both of The Office fame), and their friend, Karl Pilkington - all three of them in a studio recording their weekly podcast.  It came on after Bill Maher, providing a dose of sweet British humor to lighten the heavy liberal bitterness leftover after Real Time.

You might think that Mr. Gervais drives the comedy behind his show.  Incorrect.  Karl Pilkington is the real star of The Ricky Gervais Show. With his charming Manchester accent, deep voice, and pensive seriousness, Mr. Pilkington's unique character and his unusual way of thinking about the world have made me laugh so hard that my stomach aches and my living room tissue box is empty from dabbing away happy tears.  Here are a few Pilkingtonian gems (and you can find more here):

• On dopplegangers - "How would I know which one I was?"
• On chameleons - "Stay green. Stay in the woods. Stay safe."
• "Neil Armstrong, that spaceman, he went to the moon but he ain't been back. It can't have been that good."

Lucky me, Ian is quite learned in the art of Pilkington humor, and he's been pulling out some chuckle-worthy thoughts of his own recently:

• On the Keebler Elves: “It's a fire hazard to make cookies inside a tree.”
• On scary zombie movies:  “Why do they call them the ‘undead’?  Aren’t the undead us?”
• On family planning, “Shouldn’t it be called Unplanned Parenthood?”
• On an amputation scene in the John Adams mini-series: “They wouldn’t show that on HBO, would they?”
• On the ash crosses people wear on their foreheads on Ash Wednesday: “I’m sure Jesus wouldn’t want you to look stupid.”

Memory Journal: Haunted Trail of Tears

Yesterday, my eyes died.  No, not my baby blues; my Halloween spooky eyes - the ones that were hanging in our living room window and blinking on and off like menacing creatures in the dark - they broke.  The ill-timed loss of one of our central October decorations made me feel pretty bummed because I love Halloween.  I may not have the time or willingness to celebrate like this family, but I love everything about Halloween: the colorful leaves, the chubby pumpkins, the sticky spiderwebs stretched across neighbors' porches, and morning show hosts debating the sexiness of this year’s Halloween costumes.  ‘Tis the season.  

So when I decided to plan a weekend trip to Michigan with my dear friend, Kelly, and our significant others in late October 2009, I thought we should partake in at least one Halloween-themed activity. I suggested we go to a haunted house of some sort. We settled on the New Salem Haunted Woods in Dorr, Michigan.  And here’s what happened:

On Saturday night, the four of us - me, Ian, Kelly, and her husband, Mike - piled into Kelly’s red Jeep and programmed “Dorr, Michigan” into the GPS on her dashboard.  In true October fashion, it had been raining nonstop since we arrived the day before, but the skies cleared up on Saturday night.  So we left the wet roads of Saugatuck and headed east into the body of the state.  With only bright headlights and spotty GPS service to guide us, we arrived at our destination an hour later only to discover that the Halloween attraction I had chosen was located on a damp farm in the middle-of-nowhere, Michigan.  The littleness of the location comforted me because How scary can this really be?  

We parked the car, stepped out onto the soggy mud and immediately regretted our choice of footwear for the evening.  Slopping through the parking lot/field, we made our way into the fluorescent-lit barn all cheerful with its picnic tables, pumpkins, and hot chocolate for sale.  This looks family-friendly, I thought to myself, They’re even selling apple cider.  But we bypassed the seasonal items and went up to the counter to purchase our tickets.  There we noticed that this farm offers two Halloween attractions - the Haunted Woods and the Haunted Corn Maze - but the nice teenager at the cash box advised us against the Corn Maze because, as she put it,  “I don’t think you have the right shoes for it.”  Fair enough.  So we bought four tickets for the Haunted Woods and exited into the darkness outside where the only light came from the door of the ticket barn and the silver-lit metal of the animal sheds in the distance.  The newly-clear sky had chilled the air and the dampness around us, so we bundled up with gloves and hats and waited for the hayride to take us to the entrance to the Haunted Woods.  

The twenty-minute hayride renewed our sense of just how in-the-middle-of-nowhere we were.  The tractor driver dropped us off by a single bonfire, bordered on one side by woods and another by vast fields of corn, and above us a night sky dotted with many more stars than us city-folk are used to seeing.  Scanning the forest line on our left for the entrance to the Haunted Woods, I could see a single staff member directing groups to enter one at a time by crossing over a covered bridge painted a deep red.  Or bright red - I couldn’t really distinguish shades of colors because it was so dark out there.  The only light source was the bonfire, which was muddled at best because of the fifty-or-so visitors huddling around it for warmth.  It felt like Valley Forge meets Amityville Horror.

With a bit of wait ahead of us, I made a decision that negatively impacted the rest of the night:  I decided to pass our wait time by retelling the story of the movie Paranormal Activity to Kelly and Mike, who promised that that they had no interest in seeing it in the movie theater.  So I tilted my head from right shoulder to left and stretched out my arms, and I put on my best scary-storytelling face. As we gradually moved away from the bonfire towards the covered bridge entrance to the Haunted Woods, my scary story progressed through demon possessions and phantom Ouija boards, and the random shrieks of fear and frightened laughter echoing from the woods peppered the plot with real-life frights.  

I timed my storytelling so well that when I come to the conclusion -  “And then she leans over the body and LEAPS at the camera with blood all over her” - we found ourselves in front of the covered bridge waiting for the staff member to give us the go-ahead.  By then the four of us were chockablock full of adrenaline from the retelling of the scary movie and had not done enough emotional push-ups before the haunted triathlon that was now upon us.  Oops.

“Okay, you can go!”  Said the enthusiastic staff member.  So the four of us stepped forward, alone from the crowd.

We knew the covered bridge was safe because we had seen numerous groups of people cross it uneventfully before us.  So with the light of the bonfire nearly indistinguishable at our starting point, we headed onto the bridge and found that it was covered in sticky spiderwebs.  The fake kind, of course, but impressive nonetheless.  This was the first moment I realized that the production value on this little haunted shin-dig might not be as crappy as the location initially suggested.

After the covered bridge, a small barn awaited us on the edge of the black woods.  Already spooked by the storytelling and the spiderwebs, the Who Goes First question inevitable came up.  In my first and last display of bravery that night, I nominated myself to go first through the door of this scary building because this whole trip to the Haunted Woods was my idea, after all.  

So I pushed the door open into the dark barn to enter a dim, red-lighted room with a bubbling cauldron in the middle and no one else in sight.  Then, with my three guests behind me and my hand still on the door knob, I felt the door stop prematurely behind my hand.  It hadn’t hit the wall.  No, the door had run up against something much softer and pliant.   A person maybe.  But as soon as I realized the threat from behind, one emerged from the front.  A demented school teacher jumped out from behind the cauldron to scare the bejeesus out of us, followed in close coordination by the door creature from behind.  After a couple of high-pitched “Eeks!” from me and Kelly and manly congratulations of “Good one!” and “Nice scare!” from Ian and Mike , the two witches bid us a frightful welcome to their cauldron project, each with unblinking eyes and deep, throaty voices.  

Hightailing it out of the back door of the cauldron building, we re-entered the dark outdoors and saw our next destination a hundred feet ahead of us, the building that would take us deep into the Haunted Woods.  With bright moon and cornstalks on our right and black forest and scarecrows on our left, we set out on the straw-and-mud path to Building 2.  Fearful of an unexpected attack, I intertwined my arm with Ian’s and began to push him toward the cornfields (his side) away from the scarecrows (my side).  

Double whammy again.  

Someone jumped out of the cornfield on our right and the four of us screamed and jumped left.  The Child of the Corn was chasing after Kelly and Mike ahead of us and then BAM! one of the scarecrows came to life on my left side and began to run at me and Ian in his black robes and demonic face paint.  I dug my face into Ian’s left shoulder to make it all go away.  But it didn’t.  Scarecrow Man was following us.  Following me, more specifically.  He was hovering over me about 4 inches from my body.  So I squished my head and my eyes into Ian’s shoulder even more as we walked slowly towards Building 2.  And I waited until it was safe to look up again ...

A few moments later, I carefully tilted my eyes up to meet Ian’s and timidly asked, “Is he still there?”  

“Yes.”

Perhaps out of a sense of learned politeness or maybe just our of fear-induced insanity, I felt the need to acknowledge his presence at this moment.  When Ian replied in the affirmative that Scarecrow Man was, indeed, still hovering over my left shoulder, I turned to face my attacker.  

We locked eyes for a moment before he unleashed the most frightening of screams directly in my face.

I let out a horrifying-yet-girly scream and flung myself back into the safety of Ian’s left arm.  Scarecrow Man broke character for one second to let out a little laugh of triumph before turning around to prepare for his next batch of victims.  

And then something happened.  It wasn’t a personal choice towards emotion or dramatics, but rather a purely physiological reaction to the intense fear I was feeling:  I threw my hands up over my mouth and started bawling.  I bawled all the way to Building 2, where we met up with Mike and Kelly, who had narrowly escaped Corn Monster by running away.  “Can we” - gasp - “please” - gasp - “go back?  I don’t like” - gasp - “this anymore.”  The boys said no, and they were right (That would have looked really lame to walk back through the entrance).  So Kelly put her hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes and reassured me that she was feeling just as frightened: “I’m right there with you.”

So we persevered through the Haunted Woods, from Building 2 to Building 20 and all the scary trails in between, and I cried the whole way through.  I cried as we shrieked together in the haunted graveyard as our feet sunk into simulated mud.  I cried when Kelly hit a Scary Tree Man with her purse.  And I cried while the four of us, blinded by the lights in the strobe-lit cavern, jumped back in unison when we opened the door to see a pitch black room.  We argued for a minute about who would go first before realizing that it wasn’t a room at all; it was the outside.  

So this little haunted attraction in this little Michigan town gave us the biggest scares.  Kelly whacked her purse around in front of her trying to physically fend off any threats; Mike laughed defensively and held onto Kelly; Ian congratulated the actors on fine performances; and I cried.  A lot.  But we all made it through.

The four of us like to reminisce about this story. I've heard that scary experiences bind people together, and this one certainly tied our friendship knots even tighter.  So even though the Haunted Woods filled each of us up on as much “scary” as we’ll need for the next few years, it gave us a fun life story to share with each other.  Plus, it gave Scarecrow Man a fun story to tell his buddies: “Remember that one time at the Haunted Woods that I made that woman cry?  That was awesome.”  Yes, it was.

Memory Journal: Back To School

East-coasters will be wondering why I’m writing about back-to-school when it isn’t even September.  Well we early-birds in the Midwest go back in mid-August.  Chalk it up to those catchy Old Navy commercials with the dancing families singing about cheap jeans, but I get super nostalgic about my school days around this time each year.  After all, I haven’t gone “back to school” for four years now, but I did for the preceding 18 Augusts.  In truth - and there’s a Meijer commercial that made fun of this - I loved back-to-school time, especially the shopping.  Nothing could get me in the mood for some serious studying and note-taking like crisp folders and bright white paper.  Going to Target or one of the office supply stores felt like stocking up on penicillin and food at the general store in the Oregon Trail video game: serious prepping for a big adventure.  I carefully chose the items that would accompany me every day for the next ten months:  pencils that would slide into the thin nook at the top edge of my desk, college-ruled paper I’d hand out to classmates who ran out, and multi-colored binders that would go rigid stuffed with notes and dividers by the end of the year.  For a good three years in high school, my most prized school-related possession was my ladybug-studded denim pencil case.  Handy, cute... I loved that thing.  

I may not brag about my pencil cases anymore, but I can still reminisce about my back-to-school days:

First grade:   I’m asleep in my parents' bedroom.  I remember seeing the tulip trees out the window and the blue-patterned wallpaper between my sleepy eyes.  I must have snuck up here the night before because I was nervous.   But I’m too cozy to get out of bed now.  Having come from afternoon kindergarten, I’m not used to getting up early.  My mom comes to the side of the bed and cheerfully reminds me, “Annie, it’s your first day of First Grade.”  I sit straight up out of excitement, making a perfect L with my body.  I’m so excited for my first day of real school.

Third grade:  I’m in the gymnasium of my elementary school a few days before school starts.  A friend from church runs up to me and says “We’re both in Mrs. M’s class!”  She grabs my hand and pulls me over to a piece of computer paper taped to the gym wall, and I see my name listed under Mrs. M’s. class.  We’re both excited.  We think she’s the best third grade teacher only because she’s young and pretty.

Junior High:  I labor for hours the night before trying to determine what I should wear on the first day of school.  Wide leg jeans?  Abercrombie & Fitch?  Even though I'll be seeing familiar faces, I still feel like I'm making a first impression.  

Ninth grade:  The day before my first day of high school, I go in to register and get my picture taken for my student ID and our yearbook.  I’ve carefully chosen my outfit and primped my hair.  But I know my ninth grade picture will misrepresent me because I get my braces taken off the next day.  

High school:  My high school is huge (around 4,000 students), and we only have ten-minute passing periods.  My stress dreams before each new semester involve getting lost in the hallways and not being able to find where classroom B125 is before the bell rings, and I am not the kind of student who would ever get a “tardy.”  No sir.  Lucky for me, my dad is a teacher at my high school, so he takes me over the night before our first day back and helps me find my classrooms.  It’s always fun to see the school at night.  The hallways seem restful and sleepy, just waiting for the excitement of tomorrow.

College:  My best friend-turned roommate and I just moved into our dorm room, and freshman orientation is in full force.  I’m excited to make new friends, but I’m happy that I already have one with me.  We feel like each others' security blankets.  But a few days after we move in, she gets sick with mono and has to go home.  I’m bummed she has to leave and even more bummed that we won’t ever be able to share our dishes or utensils.  Plus, she accidentally takes the cable cord hook-up with her so I can’t watch TV.  I only have two DVDs with me, and I watch one of them almost every night for two weeks.  I still have the beginning of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets memorized: “I’m sorry, Hedwig, I’m not allowed to use magic outside of school.”  College is just as cool as Hogwarts.

Memory Journal: Food Revolution

British Chef Jamie Oliver may be trying to create a “Food Revolution,” but his efforts pale in comparison to those of my parents in the 1970s.  They graduated from college in 1973, moved to Indiana and stopped eating sugar after reading a book called Sugar Blues. And I don’t mean they stopped eating Twizzlers.  They eliminated all forms of sugar, including white flour.  No Coke, no cookies, and whole wheat pancakes only.  Like any good gateway drug, the no-sugar diet also led them to eliminate meat from their diet.  They made all of their meals from scratch and maintained a huge garden, and they even canned the leftover produce.  They maintained this lifestyle of sugarless vegetarianism for EIGHT years.  Chalk it up to the revolutionary spirit of the times I guess.

Then us kids came along and messed everything up.  My dad was walking on the New Jersey boardwalk in 1982 with my then-four-year-old older sister who wanted ice cream.  He bought a cone for her and nervously ordered one for himself.  He hadn’t had any form of sugar for nearly a decade and worried that it might cause a bathroom emergency.

Fortunately for him and the patrons of the Wildwood Boardwalk, nothing happened.

It all devolved from there.  My mom now makes some of the best brownies in the world and my Dad recently ate some monstrosity of a hamburger as a food challenge at a local restaurant for Father’s Day.  He had his picture taken with his empty plate and signed it with a silver pen before the waitress hung it on the wall of fame.  ‘Twas a proud day for our family.

So my parents are no longer sugarless vegetarians, but they reminisce excitedly about those days. Once I became meatlessly-inclined a few years ago, my parents dusted off their recipes from the '70s and made me one of their famous nut burgers.  It tasted like I was cannibalizing the Planters Peanut Man.

They've redeemed themselves since that incident. Like the kids who discover their dad is Peter Pan in Hook, I've discovered the hidden talents of my parents as I've developed a new interest in local, sustainable, and healthy food. We re-birthed the garden together this past May, as I detailed in my last post, and we have tentative plans to make our own bread and to can our leftover veggies from the garden.

So I'm happily on board for gardening, vegetarianism, and from-scratch cooking; but giving up sugar...that's just crazy, right?

Memory Journal

If blogging had been around in the 1930s, my tech-savvy grandmother-in-law would have been all over it.  We’d be able to go to her blog today and trace her life through her posts. It'd be the online equivalent of finding a dusty collection of journals in the attic. Too bad Al Gore didn't invent the internet until much later.


Fortunately for us, Ian’s Grandma participates in an online project called Elder Storytelling where she and other folks in their golden years share stories from their lives.  It’s like retrospective blogging, and it’s really fun. You should check it out here.
 

Reading her stories got me wondering: if we’re the grandparents of tomorrow, won’t we have a pretty extensive digital legacy for our grandkids to look back on and learn about our lives?   I know it’s hard to predict when technologies will be replaced with new ones, but I think it’s safe to say that the Internet will be around for a long time.  So won’t our facebook pages, our web albums, and our blogs be around for everyone to see...maybe forever?
  

I started this blog - and the Dinnertime Stories chapter in particular - to tell my own stories and create my own digital legacy to share with you and perhaps my successors.  (Shout out to any great-great-great-grandkids reading this in the 23rd century!)  I can only hope that our future robot overlords will keep my pretty wallpaper and curly font on this blog when they archive it. For now, I'm happy it's just you and me here... 

To start off my Memory Journal, let me share my first two memories with you.   

• This one’s sad.  I must not be older than three years old, and I’m at my dad’s Uncle's funeral.  I have something in my mouth - maybe a pacifier - and my Polkadot Blankie dangling heavily over my shoulder.  I’m standing in front of a large dark box, the smooth wood just above my eye level.  I’m too short to see inside it, but I look up and over my left shoulder see the grown-ups behind me crying. Adults crying is new to me.  I don’t understand why they’re sad. 
• Onto the happy one.  I’m in the bathtub upstairs.  My parents just bought me the most beautiful purple innertube for me to play with at the pool.  It’s shaped like a dragon, and Daddy has inflated it to life.  Maybe the weather is too cold or it’s not even summer yet, but I can’t wait to take it the pool, so I swim with it in the bathtub.  Just me and the inflatable plastic dragon wrapped around my tummy, both of us splashing back and forth between the gray bath tiles.  My parents stand by the mirror, arms around each other waists, smiling at me playing in the water.  

I’ve heard that the older the memory, the more likely you are to see the experience as an observer, as if you’re floating above the scene.  For these two, I still see them from my own eyes.