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First Things First
We celebrate the first month of a new year with a collection of some memorable firsts.
By Jeff Berg
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Rob Hinton recalls his first
box of 64 crayons |
"My first. . ."--those two words can probably propel you back down memory lane pretty darn quickly. Often, of course, we may think of our first, ahem, roll in the hay or our first kiss. But what was the first non-bedroom thing you thought of when you read that two-word phrase? Your first grilled cheese sandwich? The first-time excitement you felt when you discovered Desert Exposure?
In celebration of the New Year and this season of "firsts," here are some of the memories that some people in my life shared with me.
My First. . . Horseback Ride
Debbie Holderby
When you are a small person, horses look huge. Years ago, people would bring horses to houses and offer to sit your child on the horse and take their picture. When I was four, one of these photographers came to my home. My parents thought that a picture on a horse sounded like a good idea. My parents took me by the hand, brought me up to this large scary animal, and introduced me to my ride. The owner of the horse placed a carrot in my hand, and in a soft voice told me to hold my hand flat, balancing the carrot on my palm, and to be very still. I remember watching my outstretched hand, sure that it was going to be bitten off. Then I saw the white muzzle of the horse, nostrils flaring, breathing on my hand, coming closer and closer. I tried hard to be brave, to hold very still. The huge mouth stood over my hand, and I felt the gentle nibble of the horse picking the carrot gingerly from my hand. The soft muzzle tickled my palm, and when the horse moved away, the carrot was gone! I was all right, the horse looked happy, and at that moment I was sure the horse did not mind if I rode on his back.
I learned some valuable lessons that day: Some things take courage, but are often worth it. And things are not always what they seem. . . .
Debbie Holderby lives in Las Cruces and still rides horses every chance she gets.
Many of the people I queried had traveling on their minds:
My First. . . Time Rubbing the Belly of the Fertility Goddess
Georgia Clegg
On the first day of November 1995, my husband Bob and I took advantage of some unexpected circumstances and headed off on a trip to Cancun, Mexico. It took one day and two planes to get there, and when we finally arrived at the hotel we were anxious to hit the beach.
Cancun has a marvelous beach of natural silica sand that doesn't retain heat. At that time of year the temperature of the sand, the air and the water were all the same. With the only difference being elemental, walking into the water and out again was a unique sensation
It was evening when I walked down to the beach to meet my husband, wearing something from my carry-on bag and his swim trunks. My suitcase hadn't made the connecting flight, and according to the airline, my bag was slated to arrive within a day or two. By the fourth day of our visit I had gone through every possible item of my own clothing in combination with my husband's swim trunks, which, with a bit of effort, I could make look a little like a skirt (they were the only clothing of his that fit me). We called the airport again that morning and were assured that my suitcase ought to be at the hotel soon.
I was considering buying something to wear at the hotel shop, but I didn't want to waste any money, and at three months pregnant, I wasn't sure it was worthwhile. A sympathetic clerk caught sight of me tearing up at the dilemma. Within the hour my suitcase magically arrived at our door.
My first impression of Mexico was that of colorful paint peeling. The poor children are on the streets of Cancun at 10 o'clock at night. They flocked around us like birds. A little girl who looked to be 10 years old grabbed my wrist, snagged a bracelet made of string around it, and pleaded for money. I wouldn't have minded buying the token had I not felt forced into it. I loosened it faster than expected. The little girl made fists with her two hands together as others around her were doing, but she left out her thumbs, and I ringed them with the bracelet. Whereupon, she hauled off and hit me.
We spent an entire day on a bus tour into the Yucatan to see the pyramid at Chichen Itza. The site included a restaurant and a beverage stand. Everything was overgrown with short jungle. The path to the pyramid was littered with empty cigarette packs, bottle caps and broken glass. There, local people sold jewelry and other items. I wasn't speaking to Bob because he'd begun smoking again. (I was subconsciously mad at my dad for not quitting smoking until shortly before his death.) A fortune-teller of sorts asked us the date that meant the most to us. I replied that I could think of none. It all seemed to so important.
The pyramid was very steep. My husband didn't want me to attempt the climb to the top. Defiantly, I did so (I crawled back down, though, holding onto the rails). Afraid I'd fall, Bob climbed up after me. The view was awesome. Upon our return to the city, I rubbed the belly of the statue of a fertility goddess in the plaza, for luck.
Looking back, I enjoyed many things and I learned much. I learned that one must always tip the porter, that while on vacation one shouldn't attempt to do everything, that one must always climb the pyramid and rub the belly of the goddess. I learned something of the beauty and spirit of Mexico and its people, and how much my husband loves me.
Georgia Clegg and I have been friends since 1976. She lives in St. Paul, Minn. With that same husband and their daughter.
My First. . . Time in Paris
Bob Venners
I was 26, had aspirations to be a writer, and thought Paris was as likely a place to begin as any. The flight to London was uneventful, the crossing of the Channel enjoyable. Then things began to go wrong.
My first move was to buy a beat-up Citroen van in Boulogne-sur-Mer. It didn't go up hill too well, and the 60 miles to Paris were a struggle. Near Picquigny I was stopped by a cop on a bike and escorted to the city jail. After a couple of hours in the brig, they finally figured out that my passport, international driver's license, insurance and car registration were in order and let me go.
Paris! Up ahead! Found a hotel room in the Montmartre district. Oh, my vehicle is illegally parked? No problemo, I'll just move it down the block, around the corner, past the cemetery, up the hill--dang, how does one park in town, anyway?
Finally I found a space and slid in. Now, what was the name of that hotel? What street was it on? Uh oh, trouble in River City. Seven hours of searching and I finally found my pad. Night was coming on. I had a beer and a sandwich at an open-air cafe down the street and then collapsed into bed.
The next morning I gassed up the Citroen and headed for the coast. I think I saw the Eiffel Tower on the way out of town.
Two days later I was back in Michigan.
Un clou chasse l'autre (one nail drives out another).
Bob Venners, a renaissance man, lives in Deming.
My First. . . Plane Ride
Cheryl Moore
Back in 1956 my mother and I were the first in our family to travel by air. It was an unplanned event. We were on vacation, the second in my parents' 20 years of marriage. We started near Chicago in the family 1949 Buick and planned to follow Route 66 to California. We looked for motels with swimming pools and my father and I took advantage of them at the end of each hot day of driving. But my mother, who had never learned to swim, spent the evenings inside our room reading. Every day there was so much to see and do that I didn't notice the strain. That evening was punctuated by a quarrel because my father had taken me with him to climb a steep trail. When my mother saw us high over her head she was frantic that I might fall.
Day by day we ventured farther west and by Albuquerque the heat was intense. I developed prickly heat rash. When we crossed the border from Arizona to California and my mother viewed the same hot, dry desert on the California side, she asked in a voice heavy with disgust, "Is this California?"
In southern California we took in the sights--Disneyland, Hollywood--then drove north up the east side of the Sierras. We crossed the mountains at Tioga Pass. As my father negotiated the steep, narrow road and tight hairpin turns, my mother lay in the back seat with a pillow over her head, terrified. I loved it--the mountains, the huge granite boulders, the fast, icy mountain streams, the tall conifers, and the fresh, clean smell of the air after all those hot days.
Then we arrived in San Francisco. The clear days were like the most beautiful, bright, brisk autumn days back in Chicago. Everything fascinated me--the city built on hills, the cable cars, Chinatown, all the white-and-pastel buildings, so unlike the smoke-blackened brick of Chicago. It was in San Francisco that the decision was made for my mother and me to return to Chicago by plane, leaving my father to bring back the Buick alone. Two years later my mother sued for divorce and five years later she and I returned to California, via Greyhound, and I began a new life.
Cheryl Moore lives in Petaluma, Calif., just a short distance from those cable cars and Alcatraz.
My First. . . Cactus
Gary Goodger
Having driven 1,500 miles on our first trip west of the Mississippi, we passed Roswell, NM, on our way to Arizona. The purpose of our trip was to drive a rental truck for our son, who was moving to Tucson. A few miles past Roswell this feeling of the Big Sky started to enter my mind. It was as though I was somehow feeling a new sense of freedom and openness. Having been strapped into the rental for too many hours, we decided to pull over at the side of the road. A short stroll up an embankment led to a beautiful pastoral scene. I was feeling overwhelmed by the scenery, fresh air and openness.
Then it happened, my first encounter with a cactus: As I was walking backwards down the hill, I stepped onto a prickly pear. Well, I soon began to respect the land of the Big Sky. Since moving to New Mexico several years ago I've noticed many first-timers have the same experience. We seem to learn quite quickly, though, because we rarely ever get caught by that "little" cactus again.
Gary Goodger retired from an eastern mega-manufacturing corporation several years ago and is now involved in many volunteer opportunities in and around Las Cruces.
Moms and teachers never seem to forget their child-bearing or -rearing experiences: My First. . . (and Only) Baby
Lorraine Zehr
He was handed to me. I expected a wrinkled, red-faced, bald-headed crying form, but I didn't care. He was mine. I pulled the blanket down to really see what was presented to me. There, lying in my arms, was a quiet, beautiful, chubby face with sleepy eyes and a mass of long brown hair. I took hold of his tiny hand and his mouth opened just a little as if he were going to say, "See? I'm here."
It was the first time I saw my newborn son. It has become a moment in memory I'll never forget.
Lorraine Zehr is my mom. She lives in Barrington, Ill. I am no longer chubby, thank you.
My First. . . Day of 30-Plus Years of Teaching
Sarah Berg
A warm summer day in August 1968. I arrived very early that morning, making sure that everything was in order. Nervous and excited, I made sure that the bulletin boards were colorful, the reading center inviting, the textbooks all lined up on the shelves, and name tags on the front of every desk, just waiting for the new occupants to find their appointed spot in Grade l at Henry Longfellow School # 28, in Indianapolis. I turned my attention to the chalkboard and printed in very large, easy to read letters the instructions for the morning work. In my lesson plans for the day, I had figured that this work would be perfect to keep everyone occupied while the students arrived, and I took attendance, greeted everyone, checked addresses, arranged seating, passed out forms, etc.
Well, suffice to say, it was a disaster. NOT ONE STUDENT COULD READ ANYTHING I HAD WRITTEN! My student-teaching experience had been in a university school with children of the faculty, at the second-grade level. Of course most of those whom I had taught were working at about a fourth- or fifth-grade level! What was I thinking? As I eventually discovered, most of my new students had not had any kindergarten, did not know the alphabet well, knew few numbers, and most certainly had not begun to read.
It's amazing how brain cells work when panic sets in. Somehow we got through that morning--my students didn't abandon me in disgust. We laughed, we cried, we worked--boy, did we work! And they taught me how to be a teacher. The numbers and letters and words slowly began to make sense to my children. And when they left me that June, I realized that my very first class had survived that very first day.
Sarah Berg is a retired teacher who still doesn't appreciate the impact she had on 30 years' worth of teaching minority children.
My First. . . Baby (II)
Caryn Haas
My first child and pregnancy changed my life forever! I framed my ultrasound pictures and talked to my unborn child on a daily basis. I craved corned beef hash and hot-sour soup. Pregnancy agreed with me and I loved every minute of it. I was destined to be a Mom. A day doesn't go by when I don't tell my children I love them, forever and ever, no matter what!
My daughter was born when I was 33 years old. I took for granted that I would "be a natural" in the mother department. It couldn't be further from the truth. I was terrified of this little being. The first time I trimmed her fingernails, I cut the very tip of her finger off and made her bleed. I was scared to death to bathe her by myself because I was afraid I would drop her when she wiggled. It was probably four months before I got up the courage to give Amanda a bath without Stephen (her daddy) assisting and reassuring me. I was a mental case about her soft spot on the top of her head. I was terrified I was going to bump it when I was carrying her. Our family room at the time was in our basement and I would walk downstairs with her in my arms every day with visions of the hand railing knocking her square in the soft spot.
Then there was the time I was exhausted and fell asleep on the floor in the living room when Amanda was 11 months or so. She was just beginning to pull herself up on things as I was awakened by her "smacking." She was eating a beetle that was in the windowsill! Oh my God, I called Poison Control right away. They told me she'd just ingested some protein--not to worry.
The first street fair we took her to, she had one of those glow-in-the-dark necklaces on. Being a toddler, she started chewing on it and it cracked, spilling the fluid, which made her mouth radiate fluorescent light. We ran with Amanda to the nurse's tent to find out the main ingredient in the necklace was soap. She was ok.
Bottom line, the child survived in spite of me!
Caryn Haas, a cousin, is of course a Mom, homemaker and a Realtor in west-suburban Chicago.
My First. . . Box of 64 Crayons
Rob Hinton
I must have been about six when I first saw them. Right there on the shelf with the other smaller boxes was the biggest and best assortment of crayons ever. Having been an experienced coloring artist for some time, staying within the lines was easy, and I had moved beyond the thick sticks of the eight waxy colors required in first grade. Daring to experiment, shading brown over red, I created rust. By mixing the right amounts of green and yellow, a tinge duplicating the Bermuda grass of early spring could be achieved.
Mr. Peterson, the store's owner, was a master at merchandising his wares. He had opened one of boxes, flipped back the top, displaying 64 beautiful shades of color. My imagination went wild. With such a vast array of hues at my disposal, the possibilities seemed endless. My mouth watered. I reached for the display model for a closer look. The huge yellow box even had a sharpener built in on the backside. I had to have it! But how could I convince my mother that I needed this super-duper set of crayons? Surely, she'd tell me that it wasn't a necessity, it was an extravagance we simply couldn't afford.
Anticipating her response, I bit my lip and returned the wonderful set back to the shelf, wishing that someday I'd have such a set. I never told anybody, but I guess Santa knew, because Dec. 25, 1964, underneath the tree, was my first jumbo-sized box of Crayola crayons.
Rob Hinton wrote the prizewinning piece, "Kookoo for Kokopelli," in the 2004 Desert Exposure writing contest (April). He is also the author of a terrific book for young people, entitled Crossing the Line.
So, a lesson you can learn as we start the New Year, is to not wait to have more "firsts" in your life, otherwise. . .
My First. . . uhhh, ummm
Ron Moermond
I'm too old to remember any firsts.
Ron Moermond, a long-time friend, acts older than he is in Lakewood, Colo.
Compiled by Jeff Berg, his first time doing so.
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january 2005
