My pivotal childhood memory
It happened nearly seven decades ago, but I remember it so well. I was, maybe, three years old, and it was late on Christmas Eve. My Polish parents always celebrated Christmas Eve with a lavish meal, followed by the opening of presents, before going to midnight mass. I even remember the red colour and pattern of the living room curtains.
It’s my first memory – opening that final present, and finding my dream. A piano. A toy one maybe, but a piano nonetheless. Just like the one shown here. I soon found out that I could play by ear – the notes and sounds made sense immediately.
Now, the big hit being played on the radio at that time was “Oh my Papa”. I loved it. I started playing the notes. “Oh, my papa, to me he was so won-der-FUL….”. The note that went with the final syllable of “wonderful” jarred. It didn’t sound right. I couldn’t understand it. Why did it sound so wrong? I tried it again and again and again. I cannot describe to this day the frustration I felt because it just sounded incorrect. I didn’t even know why it sounded bad, it just did.
If you take a close look at the toy piano, you will see the black notes don’t actually exist – they are painted on top of the white notes. What I hadn’t realised back then was that the note I played for “wonderFUL” was a semitone too high. It needed a back note just to the left of it, but of course it wasn’t there, it was merely painted on the keyboard, it was not an actual note that played.
My exasperation reached a climax when I picked up the little piano and flung it as hard as I possibly could at those red curtains. You can imagine the reaction of the rest of the family. What an ungrateful child – if only they knew why.
A year or so later, Mum and Dad managed to afford a real upright piano for me. I was playing Rachmaninoff by the age of 10, and managed to earn a useful living as a professional musician. These days in retirement, I play for myself, and I know that anything that doesn’t sound right is purely my fault, and not that of the keyboard! But every time I press a black note, I feel fully vindicated for my actions all those years ago.
My pivotal childhood memory
It is the summer of 1984. I had just graduated my third grade. I am nine years old. I am with my dad, near Zaporizhia, a southeastern Ukrainian town situated on the banks of the Dnieper River. My dad had a vacation, and I was on summer holidays. We spent it together at a local riverside resort. Zaporizhia is home to Khortytsia Island, a historical spot and a former Cossack stronghold with the Khortytsia National Reserve. The place is full of Scythian, medieval, and Cossack history. It is truly a civilizational crossroads.
The Dnieper is a mighty and wide river. It is almost like a sea—I mean, the other bank is maybe a kilometer away or so. We stay at a typical Soviet resort, where you have a full-board plan. People from all over the USSR have been spending their vacations at such places.
In the daytime, my dad and I spent time at the beach. Our evenings were about watching TV in our room. I remember we were watching the San Remo music festival, an Italian pop music annual event. The Italian pop singers were extremely popular among the Soviet audience. They were among the few Western performers officially approved by the Soviet state. Though Italy was a capitalist Western country, their music was allowed. For what reason? It was allowed I think because it wasn’t American or British. For instance, French music was also OK to listen to.
We were drinking tea during those music nights—black tea with sugar and milk and some cookies, too. Italian pop music was on Soviet black-and-white TV. Those evenings were nothing special, but for some reason, maybe because of the place’s vibes and communicating with my dad, I keep those memories alive to this day.
It now strikes me to understand that in 1984, my dad was 49—exactly my age now. He died in December 2012. I am now his age back then. I have two daughters, their ages close to mine back then. The circle of life keeps spinning.
My pivotal childhood memory
I have several, being of more than a certain age. My very earliest memory comes from a now defunct retail chain in the US called K-Mart. We went shopping there one day and I remember all the people in the entire store went to the television sales department. They would set up the new colour TVs along the back wall, all turned to the same channel. But this was different. Everyone in the store was standing, watching, quiet. John F. Kennedy had just been murdered. I was too young to truly understand but I still have these snapshots; like still photographs. Texas. Walter Cronkite.
The memory I wanted to share is a bit more positive but not as important or dramatic. I was born on a US Army base and basically grew up in the Army. As a young child, my father was stationed at Fort Polk, LA, USA. One day we went down to a target range. Nobody was shooting anything and I was allowed to run around in the field. There were tanks and I could climb all over them! Wow. Real tanks!
I could climb down inside and there were levers and switches and knobs and cool stuff! Bang, bang! Then we went to the base drive-in theatre and I climbed all the way up the back of the screen. See, the back was angled and had green, roofing shingles. Simple tennis shoes would grip like spider man to a beautiful, curvy blonde.
Of course, I’m sure the drive-in is long dead and the target range is surrounded by barbed wire and MP’s. Can’t have the little rug rats assisting unexploded ordnance in completing its task. And heaven help us if the lawyers found out a child could just climb up the back of the giant screen.
So yeah, I didn’t have a Play Station… but I had the real thing. I was just too young to know how lucky I really was.