The First Thing I Remember

Catharina as a child, by Frans Hals.
 In her hand she holds a silver rattle
 with bells, a precious status
 symbol. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

For my narrative paper, I decided to write about the first thing I remember (at least, I think it's the first thing).  I could have picked a lot of other memories, but this one has stuck with me, and I thought it was about time I figured out why it has.  Here goes.
I am about 4 years old.  I am waking up on the old sofa in my grandmother's living room at her old house in Joliet.  My grandmother comes in and helps me put on my socks.  And that's it, the whole thing.  
When I started thinking about it this time, I realized I had some questions.  First of all, why was I alone?  Usually, when I stayed at Grandma's house, at least my sister Rebbie was there, too, if not one of my brothers or our oldest sister, Marie.  I'm guessing that my mother was in the hospital again (she had kidney disease), and my dad took me to Joliet because it was summer and he didn't want Marie, who is 10 years older than I am, to have to deal with all 4 younger kids.  I also guess that my brother Peter, who is the second oldest went to our other grandparents in Chicago, because he and Marie were fighting all the time.
My other questions had to do with my grandmother, and after I spent some time brainstorming about her, I realized that she is the reason I still remember this.  I haven't quite gotten to a thesis yet, but I will.

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Could I live in a dumpster?

Yes, this is inside a dumpster.
Dumpsterproject.org

Well, maybe, if I had to do that, but I sure wouldn't choose to:  I'm claustrophobic, badly enough that being in even a medium-sized room without an openable window makes my heart start to pound.  "Living Simply in a Dumpster" was published in the Atlantic some time ago, and it surprised me, just by not being about poverty.  By James Hamber, it's a profile of Jeff Wilson, a university professor who had been living in a dumpster by choice for some time when the piece was written.  More power to him, I say.  He teaches environmental science, and he puts his money where his mouth is.  I'm sort of wondering how much money he saved when he was living in the dumpster.  I'm imagining it--you can't have much, because there's no place to keep it.  So, clothing, just as one example.  If you could only have, say, four outfits, what would they be?  And pajamas count as one.  Ouch. 

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"A Man and His Cat"

This is Tony, at 3 months old

I just read "A Man and His Cat," by Tim Krieder.  I have some trouble relating to anybody owning a cat--because I AM TERRIFIED OF CATS.  I admit it.  I'm not ashamed of this phobia.  I've always had it, I think, but everyone else seems to think that something must have happened to me that involved a cat.  According to my parents, nothing like that happened, and the first time I saw an actual cat was when I (age 2) went with my mom and Tony, our dog, to the vet.  It seems that I screamed, hid behind my mom, and kept crying until they took the cat in an exam room.  
So, a man and his cat aren't something I even want to imagine.  But I did, of course, when I read this essay.  He tells us that his cat is dead now, and talks about how goofy he was about his cat.  Now, this is something I can identify with.  I always thought that Tony was my dog.  He came into the family a week before my mother found out that she was pregnant (with me, but she didn't know that then).  She always said that if she had known, she would have said no to getting a puppy, no matter how much the four kids she already had carried on.  I'm glad that didn't happen, because Tony and I were pretty close.  He was a Pomeranian, a little guy with a big-dog attitude.  We never put him in a purse or dressed him up (well, one time I did, but I never told anyone before), but he did have his own car seat with a seat belt.  
I miss my mom almost every day, but I also miss Tony at least once a week.  The great thing about a dog is that when you come home, he will be so happy to see you that no matter how bad your day was, you will be happy, too.  When I have one of those days, I can't help looking for him when I open the door, even though it makes me feel worse.

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Welcome to my Blog!

English: Tonga College students performing a Kailao dance; photo James Foster 1988.jpg (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yesterday I had my first English 101 class, and the first assignment was to start a blog.  We're supposed to read an essay in our textbook each week and post our reaction, and we have to write another post about our writing each week, too.  I think my writing's okay (I'm actually good at grammar, thanks to my mom-- she went over everything I wrote from the very first time I wrote anything, right up until two years ago, when she died), but I'm kind of nervous about blogging, since everyone says that anything you put on the Internet never goes away.  I don't want to put something on here that makes me look like an idiot for the rest of my life.
Anyway, if you want to know more about me, check my profile.

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