The first memory that I have is a little odd. I have confirmed at different points with my parents that this must be my earliest memory, too, because I would have been between 2 and 3 when it happened.
Like most youngest children, it always seems as if all of the adventures my family went on were before I was born or when I was too young to make functioning memories. When I was a toddler, my parents, L, grandparents, aunt and uncle, and two cousins all went to Yellowstone National Park together.
Apparently we went on quite a few hikes, met quite a few members of wildlife, and took quite a few pictures. (Word to the wise: unless you’re actually interested, do not ask to see the pictures from this trip, otherwise you will be subjected to a 2-3 hour long old fashioned slide show.)
What I remember? I remember there being a river in an open meadow below some mountains. There is a lodge, where I think we ate a meal, too, and that’s behind me somewhere. Mini-me in my memory is far too busy to pay attention to that, though. Instead, I’m climbing on a pile of shale and stones, laughing and playing with my father.
My first memory is standing under clear, blue skies and laughing.