I remember my first kiss. I was seven or eight and her name was Sandra. It was a thrill for me because I had a huge crush on her. The kiss was the result of a contest to see which couples could kiss the longest. Sandra and I whipped ass with seven seconds. It was the most magical seven seconds of my life. Not only was it my first kiss, but it was the last I shared with her.
Hey, it was the seventies and I was hot on girls at an early age.
I remember my first open mouth tongue kiss. It was along Minnehaha creek, between the creek and the tennis courts. I was so shocked when she pushed her tongue into my mouth that my eyes flew open. She broke up with me shortly after because she couldn’t go out with a guy who kissed with his eyes open. She never did return the sweat band I wore on my right wrist most of that summer.
My question was, and still his, how did she know my eyes were open?
They were only open for a second, and then I was having the time of my young life.
But these were pleasant memories that were in the later years of my childhood. Most of us remember events like this. My question is…how early into your life do you remember?
The two examples of my first two kisses are very pleasant memories. Even though the girl I was going out with at the time of my first French kiss dumped me the very next day, once I got over the initial shock, it was a nice kiss . And I remember it clearly.
But as I sift through the memories of yesterday’s past, the ones that go back the furthest are not nearly as pleasant. Well most of them, in “Barrel of Monkeys”, I talk about standing in my kindergarten classroom trying to match up the alphabet song with the letters along the alphabet line on the wall. Much to my consternation, I could not find elemeno. Not an unpleasant memory, but that would be around the age of five.
Most of those that predate that memory suck.
I can time these memories based on the fact that the majority took place at my grandparents’ home or cabin. After kindergarten, I spent much less time with them, and the house in Bloomington went away sometime between kindergarten and first grade.
Speaking of first grade. I remember my bitch teacher like it was yesterday. She badgered me about wanting to write with my left hand. Kept tying yarn around my right wrist to remind me which hand was the right one. When I would be working hard on a project, tongue cued up in the corner of my lips she would hiss, “Billy!” and glare at me until I switched hands.
What made matters worse was she had this silver streak in her short spikey haircut. Later in life, when I saw the Bride of Frankenstein, it so reminded me of how my first grade teacher looked. I used to have a class picture, but it’s been lost in a pile of yesterdays.
I cannot help it I am in my right mind.