My First Childhood Memory
So there I was with my Grandmother in the old Grandfather’s house. The fire cracked happily in the old fashioned cooker. There was a knitted picture of a deer in a forest on the wall above the old couch. My Grandmother was quietly peeling a potato on the old wooden table in the middle of the small kitchen. My Great grandmother coughed next door and suddenly shouted at my Grandmother to hurry up and bring her a medicine. My Grandmother sighed and cut a quarter of the potato and with a dollop of butter she pushed it gently into my mouth. Her eyes were so kind but her face stayed sad. She stood up and hurried next door. I jumped off the wooden chair and cautiously opened the door to the small living room, where my Godmother had been writing her homework. She turned around and waved at me to go away. She had the Grandmother’s kind eyes but the Grandfather’s strong lips and I knew she did not want to be disturbed when studying.
I stayed there undecided what to do next, when she sighed and crouched in front of me with a pencil and an old book: “ Look, go to the glassed verandah and trace these letters inside.”
I happy nodded and ran out, when I heard my Godmother shouting after me:
“ Remember do not write on the Grandmother’s kitchen table, you make her cross and do not disturb her either, she has enough troubles with Great Grandmother.”
Passing the Great Grandmother’s quarters I noticed my Grandmother kneeling near her bed and washing her feet, while Great Grandmother keep complaining:
“ Be careful or I will tell my son you want me dead so you inherit this big house…”
I peeped in and looked admiringly on the huge Old Father’s Clock hanging above the ornamental bed with shiny carvings of angels on the posts. I saw my Grandmother’s head slowly turning so I quickly ran out to the glassed verandah. It was raining outside. Through the foggy glass I looked sadly at our muddy backyard where our dog jumped happily. I sat on my wooden stool and started to trace all those magical letters. Some of them I could even read. My Godmother taught me how. Suddenly the verandah’s door opened and my uncle stepped in and gave me a bear hug.
I wanted to shout from a joy but he put a finger on my lip to keep me quiet: “ Hey, do not let Grandmother find out that I am here in those muddy boots or she will ‘skin me alive’.” He winked me and I nodded in agreement. The one thing my Grandmother hated really much was mess and mud particularly.
He opened his old coat and took out the worn out book with bright colored pictures: “ Look what I have, do not tell your Grandmother or Grandfather, they would think I pinched it somewhere, like always.”
I opened the book eagerly and pointed at the letters I could read. He started to read me a story, when Grandmother entered and scoffed him about the dirty gumboots.
That was my first memory from the childhood. I was three years old.