childhood memories, do you have a best one?

A friend asked me if I had a "best childhood" memory , this was a difficult question to answer as seen through adult eyes; most childhood memories seem driven by embarrassingly naive motivations, and given the nature of the direction a life takes when bending from events , a certain importance in the structure of a persons intellect and personality.

so I Ask in the gray area, what is your best childhood memory? I will share my answer as a starter:

hmmm...this is a tough one , I really didn't have much of a childhood and what there was was almost uniformly bad. very very bad , death and I are old friends and he and I and madness play poker every Tuesday and share our childhood memories, but I must scale the mount for a damsel in distress....

ah...yes this is the best bit by far:

I believe I was four ( I may have been three as I remember my younger brother as still an infant ) , the town was a little burg called Barberton Ohio . Our house was a white two story that had probably been built in the 10's and had MASSIVE apple trees in the back yard and a giant hardwood that was probably oak in the higher than street level front yard.

It had a four season porch than ran parallel to the driveway and was mostly built by my father whom worked in a chemical plant (insert jokes here), but his hobby was carpentry ( he also built the ,five I believe, back steps coming off the roomized back porch).

The garage was set away from the house and on it's shade side sweet grass grew on on it's sun side apples ,( tree complete with treehouse and swing ), we kept wood behind the garage and would occasionally find those really dangerous poisonous snakes , cotton mouths I think, in the pile . In the summer we would catch fireflies and fall out of the tree , and in the winter build snowmen and jump out of the second story window.

To me at the time days still seemed so long that the space between seasons stretched beyond my perceptive horizons, but I believe it was late spring , whenever it was it was Tornado season and our fair neighborhood was smack in the tracking path of the beast

Being dutiful and fretful parents ( apparently i was quite a troublesome handful at a tender early age, and by the time I entered school I had already been reading and writing for a while ) mother and father opened the leeward side of the house windows and huddled with the three of us children ( my self my 18 month older sister and my 2-1/2 year younger brother ) into the basement after securing the outside cellar entrance, and the interior upper ( the only one ) door latch.

The basement always had an odd kind of green onion and dirt atmosphere thing going on and was one of the perpetually damp limestone rough cut foundation kind that had been back plastered on the walls and floors that were originally dirt with a thin crazy layer of concrete added at some inexpert point in the hazy past. There was a "wine" cellar , but we were NEVER allowed in there even though it had no doors ( and nothing else if my illicit recon missions are not faulty memories) .

I loved the cellar that starting point of non-linear building geometries holding up such upright plumb and level timbers. I liked the moss that somehow grew in one area and that , in the rain,the ever present sound of water droplets plinking here and there in the dark and cool air. The combination always seemed to be the gateway to cyclopian and terrifying Lovecraftian adventure waiting in some shadowed portal just past the edge of the light right over there ( and my parents encouraged this kind of mythos as parents will in that magical holding spell way that stops one in his tracks, 'A WORD OF WARNING' barrier of pure thought, as it was) .

But even given my love of the forbidden basement the power of the storm could be felt in the Earth right through the very walls and "floor" of the basement, pounding it's strident incomprehensible message up through our souls, and for the first time I saw FEAR in my parents faces as they huddled us in a tight bunch under the opening to the 'wine' cellar , near to holding their breath squeezing too tightly, their white faces seeming to glow in the storm twisted daytime basement twilight , changing like a slowly twisting black and white barber's pole advertising death in the inside out image of a candy cane rotating in the cracks and clefts it could find here and there .

And I realized these giant super human immortals , my parents, were like wee babes in the arms of this storm , who's power was coming ever more ardent in waves both sound and motion .

when the windward basement window blew in my father let go of me and near flew around the chimney into the low space there to secure whatever he could ( why I never understood ), and I did not miss what may be my only chance...

...now remember in my little child mind the decision seemed to go on forever , I agonized over dis-obeying my parents ( and greatly feared the belt which I would certainly get for what I was contemplating ) , the anxiety ripped and flashed like yellow orange razor lighting through my guts and eyeballs , and the fear was a physical thing like chink rusted armor around my body but...

like a shot I went, my mother suddenly a booming the syllables of my full name, she, definitely only once removed from native American stock, a force of nature herself was hampered by the baby in one arm and the sister in the other hand. i was around the edge of the steps before she could clear one foot .

utilizing a trick I had been perfecting using all fours on the upstairs steps , I shot up the painted treads modding my technique for improved speed on the fly by gripping the back edge of some of ( the steps were simple stringers with treads but no risers painted a dreadful dark brown oil paint , a decision my father always regretted and one of the reasons the basement was off limits : those babies were slick) treads to help propel me up

even so it was a close thing.Mmy father , cannon of a man that he was , shot to the the stairs by I guess by mother's , how could she get louder than the storm ? voice , for a bad moment on the fifth stair from the top his hand shot through the space between treads and for one panicked minute actually had a purchase on my lower left calf. luckily I was a head strong lad and was pulling loose ( a double terror grip on the next stair up ) and a slight moment of hesitation on his part ( about coming around the stairs or shooting his wad on a solid calf capture maneuver) allowed me the wiggly piggly space I need to get free

the basement door was designed to look like one of those farmhouse split doors that keep pigs in and people out or the other way around if one preferred , at this time; that I certainly did.

The lower door latch was a double dealio: a simple metal eye hook ( that dad did not know I could A) reach and had B) mastered ) and a wooden bit that slid into a socket to keep the two halves together ( when one wanted something more akin to a normal door , which I did not ) that I had not has time to figure out, yet.
That was almost the end of the road for me
But the wind seemed alive and it jostled the doors in just the right way and I saw how to push the lever bit up and open the bottom ...

...continued...

if we had not been dressed for escape by auto when we had to rush to the cellar instead , I would not have been where my little jacket ( and it's magical ability to turn wind into a scooping hand instead of chilly slapping sting) I loved so much, father would not not have grabbed for it , left handed, stretching prone with his shoulders even with the top stair , his body extending down the stair case ( where he had apparently landed after a final desperate lunge) , and I would not have been able to simply bend my arms back and lurch forward ( one, un-socked by dad, foot gaining traction) out of my shirt.

But the jacket gave just the right amount of resistance that dad slid down a stair when pulling it off, my little body seeming to launch forward as it did. The action did spin me around but I was a good 6 feet from the basement door by then .

There in that moment ,unknown by me at the time, I stood wildly framed and backlit through the savagely banging inner door to the 4-season porch , through the windows behind me the leading debris edge of the tornado tearing off the end off our block could clearly be seen.

Frozen in time that moment my family (just now) gathered frightfully heads poking barely above the floor , hunkered on / in the, relative, safety of the stairwell , I saw for the only time in my life, my fathers eyes go wide, first at the Tornado so close with it's winds raping the interior of the house, then when looking in my eyes his go completely round. The white all the way around showing , my mother behind him buffeted by winds , near smashing my brother to her breast ( how the kid survived that vise like grip I have always wondered about) just beginning to push my sisters head down the stairs and out of sight her eyes already on mine her so white and large and rimmed in red.

And I knew that as scared as they were of the storm , this their ultimate parental nightmare, the death of their child, was upon them , beyond their reach. Realizing I had cause this fear greater than the immortal busting one I had just moments ago witnessed I felt insanely powerful and unbelievably ( a feeling I decided couldn't ever get worse) sad for making them feel that way.
What was worse was just then the wind came to dance , for real , it seemed to comeplucking and pulling from all directions drunken or confused about which way it wanted to go . it felt like electricity was tickling every hair on my body, it felt as if I could step off into the air ( that might have been possible ) the sensation was so amazing I almost missed seeing my mother tuck her face into my father back and him beinf unable to to do more that fight with the basement door, for an agonizing eternity he tried to move mother and so that he could get to me in time but suddenly the windows in the porch shattered , oddly some inward and some out ward , and I turned and could not really see through the flying glass and twisted screens so , I ran now to the right ( so the interior wall was between me and the glass) into the den ( at teh front of the house ),

out of the corner of my eye I could see the door to the basement retreating and being closed, oddly I was sad for them having to feel bad about leaving me but I was elated by my proximity to the storm < I had to see it , if it could put the fear of death into the giant immortal , I had to see my killer face on and not from under moist groaning darkness( no of course I didn't think this eloquently back then, I am simply giving adult delineation to the youth's ultra vibrant perceptions)

the den was carpeted in white shag ( yeah I know mom was weird, right but it gets cold on those Ohio winters and Dad had custom fit a huge window in the front of the house ( well huge to me ) . It was a single sheet of glass , came almost all the way to the floor and was probably 8 x 8 feet square .

the first thing I noticed was that teh noise had changed into a deep rhythmic booming that underlined the hissing ( not howling of the wind ) , leaves were flying down the street like ultra tiny flying cars straight and even with the road, and to my astonishment the glass was moving ..I did not know glass could bend like that and the little curves caught the myriads reflections bending and refracting that Wagnerian image as if I were watching it through water.

I looked to my left and the tornado was following the street perpendicular to ours and had just crossed out street ( still heading perpendicular) when I noticed the sky, it went dark, then everything went red ( not just teh sky the entire scene was as if under a red illumination) , which changed to orange then a sit was going to yellow I noticed where the tornado touched the houses at the end of the street it juiced them like one might juice and orange , except only very hungry giants would want that chunky pulp, then the tornado seem to stop destroying things for a moment and it passed from view from where i was in the front of the house...(cont)

...while it was passing there was almost no rain but then the rain came back and the sky started to get dark and the booming cam back but from farther down the hill I could clearly hear the train cars being smacked together and I was listening to the sound of maybe the fourth one hitting the ground as I started for the back of the house so I could see them being thrown around that my father grabbed me and hauled me in tot he basement. he didn't wait. Red faced , wild eyed and blazing with silent anger he slid his belt off and tanned my bare hide while my mother wept uncontrollably , it sounded like she kept saying what "what was he thinking, what was he thinking" over and over mumbled in here tears right there in the opening of the wine cellar, until the pain made the world spin away I though my mother was still quite pretty even when crying,

and that any pain in the world was worth standing in front of the window and watching the world devourer go by.

I discovered what real love was at the age of 5.

My brother and I were in a serious accident. Both of us badly burned. 3rd degree that is.

I remember my mother screaming, loudly, and I thought it odd I could hear her screams so well over my own from the pain I was experiencing. I must have passed out at that point.
when I awakened I was in the hospital and the pain was very severe. They gave me morphine and I slept between fits of pain. Then I got an infection. For which they gave me Penicillin.
I was allergic, and went into shock....stopped breathing, my airway closed, and I do believe at that point I was either dead, or nearly so. Then.. after however long it may have been........I opened my eyes.
My mom was still standing at my side.....crying. I have never felt so much peace and protection in my life as that very day when I opened my eyes and saw my mom there.
To be only 5 and know what real love is.....Awesome
I still bear a few scars on my Arms. But they don't remind me of the pain, only the love.

DH

Very impressive story,silverlock!

My best childhood memories are not quiet as impressive.
But ,the simplicity of it.
The freedom to go out into the world,on my own,no worries.
Those years when we lived in a sort of rural suburb of sorts in South Carolina with acres upon acres of woods behind the house.
I would pack my little green backpack with food and drink,a knife,and a little transistor radio and head out for a day long adventure in the woods.
That was between the ages of 7 and 12.
I would study and wonder about nature,even collect a few snakes to bring home,which my mother did not approve of.
I would have my hatchet,chop down a few small pine trees to build a fort.
It was just me and nature,learning all on my own how to survive in the wilderness.
Man,do I miss that.
But,I was always home by supper time.
I feel sorry for the children today that can not experience that.