The sparrow
My first memory is of something that happened when I was 6 months old, or thereabouts. I distinctly remember the scene, though it lasted perhaps only a couple of minutes. No one told me about it, because not one else was there. So this was not a matter of absorbing other people’s memories.
The bird was there and I now believe he was a sparrow. It’s a fair bet; there are a lot of sparrows about.
My memory is of being in my pram. At the outer periphery of my vision, I can see the edge of the hood to the left, right, and above. In front of me is the handle — way out in front of me. The covers must have been close to my chin, because at the lower edge of my vision there is a white blurring, as if a blanket had been pulled up against whatever the weather was doing. Weather is always doing something in England, and in the mid-1950s whatever it was doing did not deter mothers from putting their babies outside, even as far away as the bottom of the garden. It was deemed good for us. It was probably also very good for mothers who needed a bit of peace and quiet.
My attention had been drawn to a bird as it landed on the handle. I know I focused on it before I reached out to try and touch the bird. I remember feeling frustration because I could not control the hand, so the fingers kept going in and out of focus as I opened and closed them trying to reach the sparrow. I failed because my hand came down and hit me on the forehead — my babyish lack of motor control. I had no words to think. Nothing intellectual to trouble my new brain, but I remember the physicality of frustration at not being able to reach that bird. Then the sides of the hood seemed to close in and the outside world was pushed back.
After I wrote that paragraph, I went through some old photographs until I found one of me at that age snuggled up in my pram, and there it is: that big fluffy white blanket tucked almost to my chin.
I have a long memory. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I believe it has something to do with the accident. [Winspear was scalded by hot tea when she was 18 months old. She remembers this, too.] It was as if the shock did something to me that left me with more than physical scars, and after I recovered, it seemed that events I might have forgotten were locked into my memory bank.
On the other hand, I find it funny that I can remember details from very early childhood onward, yet for the life of me I can never find my keys once I’ve put them down. . . . When I left the hospital weeks later, I started to remember almost everything that came to pass from then on and a few things from before the accident. Hardly an event happened that was not catalogued in my mind unless I made an effort to forget it.
Posted by Jacqueline Winspear
Ojai, California.