In my psychology class a few semesters ago, the professor told us that children don’t store memories permanantly until they are about four or five unless the memory is tragic. I’ve always thought my first memories were from when I was five: When I jumped off an eight foot slide and broke my arm because the little boy landed on his feet and told me I could too. Refusing to go to kindergarden because my cousin told me it was horrible until the teacher convinced me at open house that I should go because they had tricycles. But tonight I realized that that isn’t true.

At supper we got to talking about the snow storm that’s been happening out by Angel. My dad started telling my stepmom about the time that we had an ice storm in Florida. He said that the ice fell on the power lines so much that power went out. That the well water was frozen. That they had a huge fire going to keep warm, burning logs. That it was seventeen degrees.

And then the memories started coming to me. I asked: “Did we have to stay at Grammas?” because I have a memory of sleeping in Gramma’s living room curled up with my older cousin Elle and younger cousin Ryan. I remember we were bundled up because it was really cold. He nodded yes. “In the livingroom?” He thought a minute and said yes. Then he said: “The icestorm of Christmas ‘89″

I was two.

I have real memories of when I was two years old. I can still see that glimpse: Gramma’s living room with the brown carpet, us bundled up and curled together, some sort of non-electic light source up and to the left of my view, and a warm feeling of safety and happiness.