Early childhood memories have been playing through my mind like 30-second random bursts of video. All of them represent moments of adventure and the joy of learning.
I recall the yellow rowboat, rocking with each pull of the oars, as it moved slowly across the harbour toward an anchored ship. The water splashing around my feet scared me, making me cling tightly to my mother. Someone carried me up the swinging ladder (was it made of rope?) and pushed me over the railing into the arms of an adult. A few days later, I felt cold and damp as I clung to my father. A fine mizzle rain, patches of fog, or moisture-laden sea air had shrouded the ship. Dad pulled me to the rail and pointed seaward. “See the whale,” he said. I saw nothing but grey ocean and whitecaps stretching from ship to horizon. Months before my third birthday, travel had become part of my life.
Over two weeks and a long ship and train ride passed before I entered a room in our “new” house to see a strange sight. Dad and uncle sat next to a brown wooden box. On their heads they wore contraptions that covered their ears. Wires connected the ear pieces to the wooden box. Dad removed the thing from his head and fitted it over my head and ears. I heard the distant voices of men talking.
Demonstrating technical knowledge far beyond my years, I followed the wires now connecting me to the box and demanded to see the little men inside. Dad opened the box’s lid so I could see inside. I saw nothing but little metal boxes, wires, and glass bottles. Filled with wonder and disbelief, I knew I must one day figure out this curious thing called radio.
When I scan the years from toddler to schoolboy, other memories crowd in.
Only a few weeks into first grade, the teacher unrolled a poster with a bedtime picture at the top and a sentence below. As a class we struggled through words we had recently learned, but stopped when we encountered a new one. The teacher suggested we sound it out, pointing to each letter in order. Together we tried: “buh-eh-duh.” It took two or three tries before someone called out, “bed.” I like to think I got it first. A few years later, I found a cardboard box filled with my dad’s published writing and dreamed that one day I would write like Dad. I had launched into a lifetime of loving words and writing.
I have serious doubts about chaos theory, the hypothesis that insignificant things like the flapping of a butterfly’s wings in North America can affect the weather in South America. But I do believe these seemingly unimportant happenings from our childhood have a profound relationship to the rest of our lives. I have many other childhood memories of travel, of radio and of words and writing.
All those things eventually became important themes of my life.
Do I remember them because they later became part of my life? Or did they become part of my life because they influenced me as a youngster? I’m not sure, but I suspect a form of chaos theory works in all of our lives.