Early Memories

I’ve heard it said that a human can’t remember things that happened when they were infants. Granted, I don’t remember much, but I can remember the taste of a toy I got for my first birthday. It was a large (my size) toy soldier. It was a soft, stuffed toy covered in oil cloth that was painted or dyed to resemble a soldier with a tall blue hat.

I was trying to hold it while I was sitting in a high chair at a table and wrestling it to keep it where I could stick parts of it in my mouth and gum it to death. I also tried to chew parts of the high chair’s tray. I slobbered a lot.

The taste of the oil cloth was different than the bland baby food I was used to, although I liked the apple sauce that came in little jars because it was sweet and I could rub it onto everything I wasn’t supposed to including myself.

I don’t know if I was thinking about all this when it happened or if I’m looking back and applying my adult interpretations to the memory. Maybe that’s why it’s the taste of the toy that is so clear.

When I was three I cut off the index finger of my left hand just above the middle knuckle. I remember that clearly. I was spending the summer with my dad and stepmom (and stepbrother) in Indiana and had managed to open the door of the tall cabinet or closet in the garage where my dad left the lawnmower. It was a push mower. The cabinet was locked by means of stick with a knob that might have been a glob of dried creosote or tar and stuck through a hasp and staple. Remove the stick and the door would open.

I’d been warned to never, ever open that door or mess with any of the tools in the garage. Which made my next move a harbinger of a life spent of doing the opposite of whatever my dad told me not to do. I somehow got the stick out of the hasp and the door swung open revealing the mower and some other fascinating things like a shovel, rake and broom. I loved the smell of the oil and of the knob on the stick. I still love those smells.

The mower was angled backwards up against the back wall and the handle was far too tall for me to reach. If I had been tall enough to grab it the heavy wooden handle would have fallen back and hit me on the head and done everyone a favor. Instead I was able to play with one of the wheels and just strong enough to turn it so the mower to rolled forward. To enable me to turn the wheel I was bracing my left hand on one of the blades and when the mower rolled forward the blade snipped off my little index finger leaving it hanging by a bit of skin.

My screams brought Mother Alice from the house and despite the blood and screams she stayed calm and in control. She was able to scoop me up, grab a towel from the washing line, wrap my hand in the towel and get me to the hospital in town holding the bloody towel wrapped hand while driving a stick shift car. This was the summer of 1944.

My memory recall fades at this point so the rest is my memory of what Mother Alice told me years later. She bundled me into the emergency department where we were admitted immediately. After examining the damage the doctor told her that there was nothing that could be done. They’d have to suture the remaining part of the finger after snipping off the skin holding the severed bit above the middle knuckle. At least I’d have a “stub.”

While My stepmom was considering this a young doctor told her he thought he could save the finger. He’d just returned from serving in a field hospital in Europe where the war was winding down and explained that he’d learned some new micro-surgery techniques with combat wounds of this nature. He would like an opportunity to try one of them on my injury.

My stepmom had to sign a release form of some sort and the operation went ahead despite the senior doctors expressing doubt that it would be successful. Mother Alice was told the the severed tendons might not work again but that he was confident he could reconnect the blood veins.

My injured hand was wrapped in layers of dressings with heaps of antiseptics then put in a cast. It had to be re-examined and retreated regularly due to what could happen should the reattachment fail to take. Worst of all I wasn’t allowed in the water.

My mom was incensed when I returned to Florida in a cast and threatened to keep me from returning to Evansville. Her mood didn’t improve when she learned that my finger was, from that summer forward, known as “Alice’s Little Finger.”

I have other memories from that stage of my life. I remember being told to stay away from the canal running behind the apartments I lived in with my mom, stepdad and little sister before we drove the big Packard From Florida all the way across to Malibu where we headed after the war.

The apartments had a back yard where the tenants could dry their washing and beyond a chain link fence there was canal. I was warned that the canal had alligators in it and that a little boy my size had been dragged away by an alligator and never seen again because he didn’t listen to him mother when he went beyond the fence.

Apparently, I was a little terror and my mom put me in a harness when we were out to keep me from running away. But that was a warning I respected.

Before I learned to walk and run I have a memory of crawling. I remember it because that was when I became aware that choices have consequences and it was up to me to choose if a consequence was worth the choice I’d make.

I loved to crawl and was getting good at it. I can’t remember where this was but the floor was carpeted. The surface provided me with more traction than wood or linoleum so I could crawl more quickly. So I was working on my speed demon act when I began to realize that there was a point beyond which the insides of my chubby knees would start to burn. Was crawling as fast as I could worth it? Of course it was and I found that if I got to a certain footstool and pulled myself up off the carpet I could give myself just enough time to recover and start again. It was a joyful experience and steadying myself while standing at the footstool helped me learn how to walk. But until I learned how to run I could still crawl faster than I walked and would revert to that.

Later, I had a far less joyful experience when I found one of my mom’s bobby pins on the floor. This floor was wood and in the Florida apartment. Nobody had warned me not to do this because they probably didn’t think I’d be silly enough. You probably guessed it. I stuck the bobby pin into a wall socket and was thrown across the room into the sofa on the opposite wall. Shortly after that performance I tried to eat a glass eyedropper. Needless to say, I kept my families busy.

Early Memories © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved