My First Memory.

I have an advantage in recalling childhood memories. This is the major event of my family's moving from Colton Blvd. to Burlington Ave, a demarcation in my mind that separates the very early memories from the later ones. We moved in the summer that I turned five, which means that my first memory is probably in the range of 3 to 4 years old. As I think back, most all of my memories contain clues about location, which quickly categorize my early memories. As I said, this is quite helpful.

It was morning. It wasn't a hot morning or a cold morning, but a morning full of a humidity that would occur more often in western Oregon than Billings Montana. All of the plants were a fantastic green that basked in the dew that made my yellow and red Nikes wet as I crossed the lawn from my house. I had heard and felt the low rumble just moments before and now I was headed outside for my weekly ritual. The anticipation gripped me as I climbed the rough wooden jungle gym to the top perch. I peered over the edge of my landing, and over the out of bloom lilac bush, and into the alleyway. There sat, grumbling and heaving in a rough idle, two monstrous garbage trucks. What they were doing I could only surmise - I believed them to be taking an early morning coffee break. I would watch them, silently, until they left - full of curiosity about their magnificently green trucks, about their consistent weekly ritual.