Thunderbirds

Here is one of the kids shows I loved growing up.

Shoe laces

    I remember sitting on a chair looking toward the front window on a bright spring day. The wooden doors reflected with light coming from the window. My brothers were outside playing. I could hear them having fun. I wanted to play outside so badly. She wouldn’t let me. Mrs Garcia. 

I had to learn to tie my shoes before I could go outside. She stayed with me while I struggled. I wanted to quit but she wouldn’t let me go anywhere till I figured it out. I was determined and reached deep in myself. I remember the moment of realization when looping the last lace. I did it!  What a sense of power and accomplishment I felt. Quickly as I looked down at my newly laced shoes, went through the kitchen, through the laundry room to the back porch door. I ran outside smiling from ear to ear. We had a yard that seemed so big I couldn’t see the other end. My brothers had dug a hole. How exciting! I ran down the wooden stairs and jumped in . Wow! 

    What are those little red things crawling around…..ouch!!  Ouch that hurts.  Tears welled up in my eyes. My finger burned  like fire. An ant bite me. I did not like it one bit. My brothers brought me up the stairs to the back screen door. My fun didn’t last long. I was finding out the outside had things that can hurt me. I didn’t get to go back down the stairs so I sat on the top stairs breathing in the wonder of the outdoors. It was rare we were ever let outside. This was one time I would take in as much as I could. The sun, the breeze, the smell of the dirt, the sound of the birds.  I like this. I like it a lot

My second memory

    I was standing on a couch looking out a window excitedly watching a black women called Mrs. Green walked from the parking lot,up the stairs to the apartment door, watching the door open up and her walking in. She had a smiling and kind face. I knew she was taking me somewhere not knowing what it really meant.  I was joyful and too young to know what was really happening.  At some point I fell off the couch and cried it then faded. I do not  remember ever having a bond with my mother. This was probably the last time she ever saw me.

    Years later when I told my to my aunt about this memory she was surprised as to how I could possibly have known who Mrs. Green was because I was to young. She told me Mrs Green was the first social services caseworker to place me into a foster home. I was somewhere between the ages of 8 to 18 months old.

My first memory of life

It was sometime in the afternoon. I was looking up at the ceiling in a either a crib or small bed. The roll down window shades were drawn to keep out the afternoon sun light. The window must have been slightly open to let fresh air in because of the dancing shadows moving across the wall as the current gently drew the shade in and out. I could hear a dog barking. I must have been asleep and the dog’s bark awoke me. I didn’t cry but remember the sense of being overwhelmed as only a child could feel experiencing a new sensation.

My surroundings became more real to me as I became more aware. This unfamiliar world was becoming my world. I watched with wonder as the light and shadow danced back and forth on the walls. I could hear voices, outside noises, the dog barking and then quieting down. I also felt a peaceful yet powerful presence in the room. Its as though it was more real than the objects around me. I was afraid and at peace at the same time.  Even as I write this, whenever I feel a soft breeze, the memory is still fresh in my mind as though it happened yesterday.

I turned my head to the left and saw a doorway leading to a dark place. I didn’t know what was there but I could hear voices as though it was coming from another place in the house. Fear rose in at this point and I believe it was then that I began to cry for someone to come to me and help me make sense of all these shapes, sounds and smells. I saw a group of people. a man and two or three ladies. One of the women begin to pick me up and then the memory faded.