In my experience no one ever out-right told me that they didn't believe me -- just that they had no such early recall themselves.

I very vividly remember completely grossing out my mom I mean mega-super-duper big time when I pulled handfuls of brown creamy waste from out of my diaper and had the time of my life smearing it on the sheets of my baby crib, I tasted it and remember the bitterness of it, that I spit it out and then pulled myself up (slipping once in the process) to accidentally discover that it smeared much more easily on the wall than on the sheets...had a wonderful time coloring the pale blue wall with it... wide swatches of stuff, I covered one small area on the wall behind (next to) my crib with thicker gobs of it --I remember making happy sounds...which had to have got my mother's attention... was moving along the crib, hanging on as I went...getting better at negotiating the distance even though my hands were slippery, feeling proud of myself for managing so well, then spreading out toward the door near the light switch when I heard my mom coming up the stairs and down the hall ... I remember hearing her curious inquiring tone as she approached...when she entered, however, she showed such alarm and disgust (no mystery why, is there?) that I remember feeling terrible pain in having caused her such displeasure...particularly after she yanked my arm away from what I was doing and cleaned my hands of all the stuff I had ready to smear and as I was engaged in smearing on the foot, or head whichever was nearer the door at the end of the hall, of the crib itself.

It was when she pulled me so roughly away from what I was doing that I was most extremely frustrated in my intentions.
I was shocked at this treatment, it was not characteristic of her at all. I distinctly remember that she stood me over to the side of the crib that was clean and untouched by my delighted applications. I remember being totally amazed at her reaction, I recall how clearly she was disgusted by what I was up to and I remember coming to silence, as I realized by the look on her face the depth of her revulsion, then my tears welling up, bottom lip trembling and taking a deep breath; breaking into wails that came from a profoundly deep sense of disappointment ---with her in particular and a pained sadness with her thwarting of my pleasure in the ease of application of that stuff to the wall.
>And, Wry, was it you or Sprtcs [sp] that
said people didn't believe you could
>remember that far back? Most people have memories dating back to 3 yo or so
>but some remember all the way back to being in a baby carriage or
>crib...........
>
>In my postgrad analytical training, we were taught that the first memory
>often has deep psychological significance------
>perhaps I should be therapizing swine?:-0)
>
>Kathie
>


swine, huh.
Your judgmental labeling means nothing to me in hindsight, at the time I was awash with my own waste was my virgin opportunity to enjoy the will to form. Guilt laid over that elemental experience came of a required adaptation, cognitions, awareness of certain new realities, the joy is clear to me even now, though, it is not just an experience it is a place that I may enter by choice, as a portal to heaven on earth.

Well, judge away, my grandmother securely did the same, she always called anyone who did not keep a clean scrubbed house a pig...the Polish word ... pronounced schveenia, I spoze I qualified there for a short while as a true schveenia when my mom discovered me in that crib, surely I disgusted her. I couldn't have been much over 5 or six months old...I know that I started walking the earliest of the whole crew, according to memories of both my folks and my other relatives, and I know that I was not able to walk at the time of that event without holding on to something. But mostly I know that room, it was mine from the time I was in that crib until I was 9 years old when we moved from Rangoon St. in Detroit to Allen Park. Maybe the stability of those years made it easier for me to remember so much.
I remember the changes in furniture as they occurred, from the white crib
with decals (bunnies, lambs) on the inside foot and head panels (I remember biting the paint off the rungs on the side, shaking them and jumping up and down while holding on and making a terrible racket when I woke from naps...and while biting them seeing black paint under the white, then metal rods under that) to a black metal bed with flat bed springs, as opposed to box springs...I remember later a bookcase being placed in my room ...my mom's response to my propensity for sneaking books to bed with me to read when I was supposed to be sleeping so I would be easier to wake up for school in the morning...always a problem for her...she gave in and got me a range of books (The Children's Classics, Grimm's Fairy Tales, Louisa May Alcott, Jean Stratton Porter, Jules Verne, even, an entire five-shelf book case that held a good dozen and a half books per shelf) rather than to directly oppose my interest in early Tubby Comics, Donald Ducks, Lil' Lulu and later Super Woman and Rubber Man Comics.

Much more, none of which can possibly be anything but a bore to anyone but myself...the sense of strength that I had though, that is very clear in my mind, and speed, as well, when I crawled I moved very fast. I remember only being able to go backwards at first and then learning how to motorize forward...what a trip. Such simple delight. Oh...you know. Dull, commonplace, stupid stuff like that.

My great grand mom's funeral...that's a gem of a memory. She was buried in a nun's habit. Her husband had preceeded her in death, and the Catholic Church used to give widows the option to take vows if they chose, and she did so.
She was so tiny. I remember what I wore, and standing on the kneeler that was next to her casket, looking at all the stuff that the family had placed next to her during the wake. Beautiful rosaries, crosses, altogether it was like viewing a treasure chest with this tiny, wrinkled doll dressed in black veil and white bib, neck covered to her chin... in the middle of it all.

The woman could not have been much over four and a half feet tall, if she was an inch. I have no recollection of her as a living person, only as the little person in the shiny black box. Her face pale and hollow cheeked, nose hairs that had powder on them...accentuating their number, same as her eye lashes and brows...and the overwhelming sweetness of the smell of all the roses, the room so hot, it was winter and this was in some relatives house, my grandmother's sister or cousin...Irene, I think, or Irene's mother's place. The silence was intense, everyone talking so quietly in the room where she lay in state.
Meanwhile, laughter punctuated the stillness from out in the kitchen and loud talk wafted in from the chill of the screened back porch, tables everywhere, everyone had their own personal flask and a glass. People coming in and going out. The great abundance of Polish food for the mourners.
Most folks on foot from the neighborhood, people from within the family parish: Holy Redeemer on east Central, off Michigan, south of Livernois.
My mom and I came over with relatives who had a new car right after our own mass at St. Cecilia Parish west of Mandalay...while my dad took my sister with him over to his folk's house on west Central .... because his father needed him to help with something to do with his horse barn, snow on the old roof was weighing it down and causing problems that had to be remedied.
Must of been 1941 or maybe early 42. Maybe 43. I was wearing a blue velvet bonnet, blue velvet child's coat over a dress that didn't reach my knees. My legs were cold and my face was hot in the house where I was told to sit in a big chair, all the way back...so my feet were level with my knees and my shoes were black hand me downs from my older sister and didn't fit so well. I hated them.

Detroit during the war in Europe.

There was a neighborhood fellow later who came to those same streets; shell shocked, they called him.

These were streets crowded with family and friends newly arrived from the old countries, overland from the Eastern United States. There was talk of new arrivals, there was a warm sense lacking today in my life, the feeling of excitement and curiosity, unlimited possibilities, tentative joy. Room for more, plenty on hand, though there was not much at all it was a kind of precious, richly flavored simplicity savory with life. Elemental, hardy, fragrant effervescent valances merging the ancient with the unmet future.