My First Memory

My first memory goes something like this:

I wanted salt and pepper on my dinner; I don't remember what was for dinner, I just remember that I wanted salt and pepper on it. I asked for the salt and pepper, which Dad helpfully applied to my meal; I was just about two at the time. The reason that this memory stands out to me is because Dad put the pepper on the food first and I had specifically asked for the salt then pepper! I don't remember anything of the meal after that, but, checking the details of the memory with my parents, it turns out I threw my first big tantrum over that. Mom thinks we may have been having meatloaf, but Dad (who does the cooking [yeah, sort of reversed, I know]) thinks it may have been plain hamburgers with veggies on the side; it was ground beef, either way - YUCK!

So, like Nabokov, I don't always remember things as clearly as it seems I should. Being able to check with my parents was a big help. I wonder how Nabokov's autobiography would have been different had he kept a journal. Part of the reason that Mom was able to remember my tantrum is because she is a meticulous diary-keeper, and she keeps all of her diaries. It also helped that she knew what I was talking about, and knew the year that it happened, and was able to locate the date that it happened (August 23, 1983). I think that's an incredible feat of memory in and of itself, and I wonder if it has something to do with the fact that she writes everything down. I tried it for a while - keeping a diary (or journal, if you'd rather) - but it just made me realize that I never did anything worth writing down. But maybe, now that I'm starting a family of my own, I should re-evaluate the idea of diary-keeping, for posterity's sake (and just in case my son has a similar class assignment).