i have a large number of early memories. at least, i think so... some of them may be implanted from hearing tales of my early exploits. many of them are from a trip to alaska when i was 4.
one was rather cute, and a favorite story of my parents for years to come. we had stopped to see a large herd of goats crossing the road. my father got out of the truck with me on his shoulders; i was armed with a camera and determined to get a picture. many other tourists had stopped to gawk and photograph the uninterested goats. i saw my opportunity, raised my camera, and shouted "SMILE, GOATS!!!" causing a panic of stampeding, bleating goats and reactions from amusment to anger from the other photographers.
another was the subject of a photograph my parents took. my 2 year old brother was set in a shallow hole, much to his abject anger, while i was placed next to it, proudly holding a shovel. "Struck Gold" was the caption.
i also remember the grayish, de-saturated appearance of everything in sight. dreary, worn, faded. EXCEPT for the grass. it was the brightest green i ever remember seeing. of course, the film in 1980 was like that... am i remembering it, or was it simply the photographs i have looked through so many times over the years?
all of the above memories most likely have been corrupted, either by the stories told, or the photographs taken... but there is one pure, unmolested memory from that trip that i cherish. i call it my earliest true memory. there were no outside influences, no stories, no photos, only the memory: as we were leaving, i looked into the back window of the truck, darkened by the camper perched in the bed. i could see the reflection of the road as we drove ahead, and for my young mind, so infatuated with the sad beauty of the landscape, it was easy to believe that we were not, in fact, leaving. no, the road behind us was coming towards us. we were going back.
one was rather cute, and a favorite story of my parents for years to come. we had stopped to see a large herd of goats crossing the road. my father got out of the truck with me on his shoulders; i was armed with a camera and determined to get a picture. many other tourists had stopped to gawk and photograph the uninterested goats. i saw my opportunity, raised my camera, and shouted "SMILE, GOATS!!!" causing a panic of stampeding, bleating goats and reactions from amusment to anger from the other photographers.
another was the subject of a photograph my parents took. my 2 year old brother was set in a shallow hole, much to his abject anger, while i was placed next to it, proudly holding a shovel. "Struck Gold" was the caption.
i also remember the grayish, de-saturated appearance of everything in sight. dreary, worn, faded. EXCEPT for the grass. it was the brightest green i ever remember seeing. of course, the film in 1980 was like that... am i remembering it, or was it simply the photographs i have looked through so many times over the years?
all of the above memories most likely have been corrupted, either by the stories told, or the photographs taken... but there is one pure, unmolested memory from that trip that i cherish. i call it my earliest true memory. there were no outside influences, no stories, no photos, only the memory: as we were leaving, i looked into the back window of the truck, darkened by the camper perched in the bed. i could see the reflection of the road as we drove ahead, and for my young mind, so infatuated with the sad beauty of the landscape, it was easy to believe that we were not, in fact, leaving. no, the road behind us was coming towards us. we were going back.