The Land of the Little People

Before we were a large family, we were a small one. Small, that is, not only in number but in stature. My dear older brother, now an imposing—or at least startling—6'4", was so short as to have to stand on the couch to look out the window, my next-youngest sister was a roly-poly babe, and I was an adorable, golden-curled child, small for my age, but precocious beyond my years.

Well. My memory may be slightly biased, I suppose...

Even at such a young age, our personalities were very different. This is illustrated by each of our strongest memories. Step back in time with me, and for a moment view the world through the lens of childhood memory:

It is the late 1990s. The scene is a small parsonage, with a deck, and a yard with a swing-set, surrounded by a chain-link fence. A faint wail rises in the background. (This wail is immaterial to the story, as it proceeds from the lungs of one who is too young to talk, walk, or in any way interact with our heroes. It is only included for dramatic effect.) Three little people are busy going about their own business, unconscious of their future fame...

Memory #1: (Andrew) As we are swinging on the swings, we hear the faint tinkling of "The Entertainer" wafting toward us on the breeze. Running across the yard, we press our faces against the chain-link fence to catch a glimpse of the "Music Truck" as it goes past. We wave cheerfully to the driver, whom we consider a most uncommon philanthropist, to spend his summer days providing music for the neighborhood free of charge. One fateful day, we notice children standing by the street, waiting for the "Music Truck". Money changes hands, and ice-cream is distributed. Incredulous, we realize that we have been deceived; our parents have deliberately played upon our ignorance, calling this truck a Music Truck to conceal from us its true purpose.

Memory #2: (Sarah) Out on the porch, sitting on the edge of the picnic table with our feet on the bench, drenched with cool northwestern sunshine. Dad is holding a sour green apple in one hand, carving pieces off with his pocket knife, and offering them to each of us in turn, braced between the blade of his knife and his thumb. The best slice is the first perfect circle, but we eat every piece until only the core remains, when we watch Dad throw it far away, to land in a tangled wilderness of overgrown weeds in the empty lot next door.

Memory #3: (Margaret) Standing in front of Dad, with a plan of categorical denial. The dog's water dish has been discovered, strangely cloudy and discolored. Unfortunately, I break down under questioning, and the truth comes out: we added chalk to the water. The punishment for our crime is more severe because we compounded it by lying. In this instance, however, justice has miscarried, since I was unconscious of wrong-doing—I fell victim to a homophone, thinking that adding chalk would create "chalk"olate milk, and then was persuaded by an older sibling to deny it.

All of these are to a certain extent common memories, since they all happened to all three of us, but I find it fascinating to consider which ones stood out to which sibling. Andrew's is no surprise, he has always been an idealist, and thus disillusionment strikes him harder than others. For Margaret, I didn't even have to ask her what her strongest memory is—being myself the "older sibling" involved, she recalls it to my memory at every convenient opportunity. My recollection of the event is slightly different: without the coloring of righteous indignation, I viewed it more in the light of a science experiment. I was unaware that my accomplice was laboring under a delusion, due to an inferior grasp of the English language. Can I be blamed for her misapprehension? I would argue not, but I can appreciate that there may be two points of view on the issue. In contrast, my own strongest memory is a picture of the unadulterated and simple delights of childhood. I leave you to draw your own conclusions about our inner psyches.