I hope to someday write a memoir of sorts about the perspective I’ve gained as a result of my unconventional road to motherhood. Assignment 1 of the current extension course I am enrolled in asked that we write a short, vivid scene of our earliest memory. My first memory goes back to 1976. I was two.
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Standing at the edge of the concrete slab that separates our house from the dry grass beyond, my chubby feet are frozen. My eyes move swiftly as I scan the open space before me. It is stale, not neglected but not inviting. Little grows here. The wooden fences that help define the space are old and splintered and to my toddler eyes they appear unreachable and dangerous. My journey to the edge has already tested my personal sense of security and courage and I consider retreating.
Distant noise from a busy intersection is silenced as I refocus on the sound of heavy panting and the jingling of metal on metal approaching me.
I sit and lean back against a silver pole that supports a useless tin patio cover. After some time, the dog joins me. He circles to find the right spot and then collapses down next to me. His sleek, Doberman physique reveals a strong, developed chest. It is big. For a moment I am taken by its rhythmic rise and fall, so steady and peaceful. I reach for it. His coat is smooth and comforting. Just then I hear the glass door behind me sliding across its track and like clockwork my mama pokes her head out from inside the tiny house. The look on her face is familiar it tells me that my time is short. I have to think of a way to the fence quickly. In an instant she vanishes. I spy a heavy steel chain connected to the pole. It is secured with a thick padlock. I have an idea. Carefully placing each link, I begin to wrap us in the chain. When I am satisfied that we are secure we take off. I shut my eyes and begin piloting our tiny plane towards the fence.
