I\u2019m not sure which of these is my very first memory. It\u2019s difficult to date them. I remember riding up a road that I am pretty sure was US 11, on the way to see my grandfather. And I remember him alive in a recliner in those old apartments on Purdue in Oak Ridge, everything brown in my memory. He died a couple of days after I turned 2, and I have no memory of the funeral or anything like that – just that one day he was there and then, some time later, he wasn\u2019t.<\/p>\n
Competing for that as my oldest memory is rain. Rain at night, audible through red curtains in the dark of my parents\u2019 bedroom. For whatever reason, I had in my mind that it only ever rained at night. And that it rained every night. I had to be under three years old for that, but I can remember it, and I can remember remembering<\/em> it, if that makes sense. From a young age, I remember knowing I used to think that.<\/p>\n I say all this because I see the children of friends and I wonder how much they remember about days gone by. I wonder if they remember a mysterious figure from California who breezes in out of nowhere – or did, once or twice, long ago. I wonder if they remember being flopped like a burrito on my chest, or if they remember being dressed up like a little baseball at a Vanderbilt tailgate.<\/p>\n I wish some of my memories were more tangible. I wish I had some more of the sort of memories I wanted.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I\u2019m not sure which of these is my very first memory. It\u2019s difficult to date them. I remember riding up a road that I am pretty sure was US 11, on the way to see my grandfather. And I remember him alive in a recliner in those old apartments on Purdue in Oak Ridge, everything … <\/p>\n