The last (I think) of the four missing stories has turned up. I have mixed feelings about posting it.... but as I said earlier, Jack was a natural-born Mudcatter, so here goes! I knew from his filename list that it must exist, but this is definitely one I had not seen before, so it may have quite a few awkwardnesses yet to unravel editorially. It makes a perfect start to the collection. It's so funny that of all the stories, I should see this one LAST!

~S~

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EARLY MEMORIES

I suppose everyone, at some time, has met a person who claims to remember events in their lives from very early childhood. A few people have described to me their experiences while learning to walk, or memories of their first birthday; I even talked to an elderly woman many years ago who claimed she recalled the occasion of her birth. I found this remarkable—not only the extremely early recollection but the prodigious accomplishment of remembering the event well into her eighties.

As for me, I remember very little from my early life. Even then, my brain had apparently started practicing the memory lapses that so often plague me now.

There are two experiences I do recall that happened around my third birthday, one painfully unpleasant and the other very enjoyable.

I was playing with a ball in the kitchen of our house, which I am sure my mother had forbidden. After a particularly high bounce, the ball landed on top of the gas stove, out of sight from my three-year-old's vantage point. Dragging a small stool to the stove, I climbed up to retrieve my ball. Reaching for it my hand contacted a flaming burner, searing my palm and leaving scars which I carry still.

My only other early recollection was a several-week stay with my mother's sister Aunt Edie and her husband Uncle Fred, who lived in south London. The reason for my extended visit was "Mummy is going to get you a new baby brother or sister." I do not remember caring which, or even whether.

Aunt Edie and Uncle Fred had no children of their own, so I was king of the house. I was consulted on what I would like for dinner, how many times a week I wanted to go to the cinema, and when, where, and how far I wished to walk with my aunt in the local park. Mine was the decision on how long I would remain on the swings, and how high my doting aunt must push me. And these outings had to conclude with ice cream—the flavor selected by me, of course.

Once a week, I assume on Uncle Fred's payday, he would take me to a little shop across the street from their apartment. There he bought me a toy, usually a small cast-metal, realistically-painted farm animal. I don't remember how long I stayed with Aunt and Uncle, but I do know that by the time I returned to my parents and new brother I had quite an extensive collection of miniature livestock.

The next couple of years were apparently uneventful with many happy memories of spending a great deal of time with my father, who patiently tried to teach me the fundamentals of cricket and football (soccer), while Mother was occupied with the bawling fragmenter of my family.

Until I was almost five years old.

Periodically our family would journey across London to visit my grandparents for a weekend. Sometimes it would be Mother's parents, and sometime Dad's. These visits necessitated passing through the center of the city, and many times we broke our bus ride to see the sights. I was introduced to Picadilly Circus, the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament, Trafalgar Square with its fountains, flocks of pigeons, and the statue of British naval hero Lord Nelson atop a column which, to me, appeared to touch the clouds.

On one of these cultural intervals Dad decided we should go to an art gallery; perhaps it was the National Gallery which bordered Trafalgar Square. I remember nothing about anything we saw except one particular statue. It was a figure of a naked boy, and, as is often done, his modesty was preserved by a fig leaf. Not recognizing the foliage on the statue's body I could only surmise that this was how boys were supposed to look; since I knew I wasn't arranged in that manner, that I concluded that I must be somehow deformed.

I had nothing else to go on. I had very little to do with my brother, and certainly not while he was bellowing at being bathed.

Being appalled at my deformity I know that whatever we did for the rest of that weekend was of no interest to me. I remember becoming withdrawn and shy, hating to be bathed, and wondering why Mother had never mentioned my ugliness.

That evening, for the first time I was ready and waiting beside the bathtub when it was time for my brother's bath. Gazing at his body I was amazed to see he was just as deformed as I! My mother appeared to be totally unconcerned about her malformed sons, and I took some comfort from that but was not really reassured until I started school.

For some time, Mother had been talking to me about something she called "school."

"You'll soon be going to school," she would say. "Won't that be nice?" I didn't think so.

"You will be able to play with lots of other children every day," she would smile down at me. I was already playing with other preschool children every day in front of our house.

"You'll learn lots of wonderful things at school; won't you like that?" My father was already teaching me to kick a soccer ball and swing a cricket bat, and I couldn't think of anything more wonderful than that.

Anyway, if school was as enjoyable as Mother said it was, why did the children happily run and laugh so much as they left the playground when their school day was over?

Finally came the day I had been dreading.

"Well, Jack, you start school on Monday. Aren't you excited?"

Apparently there was no way out. I felt doomed, but still had no notion of what school was all about. What I did know was that I was frightened of this unknown and wanted, more than anything, to stay home with Mum.

It seemed obvious my mother was trying to get rid of me so she could spend all her time with my brother—my two-year-old brother who was a terrible affliction to me, the bane of my existence. He was always trying to take over my belongings, and several of my prized possessions were destroyed at his ubiquitous hands. Even when I gained his attention with a few well-placed whacks, my respite was only temporary. Yet this was the monster my mother wanted to keep with her while I was to be sent away.

Monday morning came, and at 8:30 the three of us set off for school. With one hand, Mother pushed a stroller containing my brother; she dragged me with the other.

Entering the iron gates of the playground, we were confronted by a huge, forbidding, red brick building and mother dragged me, scared and crying, inside. Directed down a long, dismal hallway, we stopped outside an open classroom door. A large woman met us, smiling broadly.

"So this is Jackie," she said. I hated to be called Jackie even then. Prying my fingers from my mother's hand she almost carried me bodily, kicking and screaming, into the room where she dumped me at a small desk with the admonishment, "Stay there and don't you dare move!" With tears streaming down my face, and oblivious to the gaze of the other children in the room, I looked at the still-open door. Mother had gone.

After a while my crying turned to sobs; finally I sat quietly, looking at my surroundings. The room was not unpleasant... Two large windows dominated one wall while the remaining three contained a blackboard and vast numbers of childish drawings.

The teacher started to talk but I paid no attention, my mind occupied with but one thought: how could I escape from there and go home to Mother? I had already learned that if I misbehaved I would get immediate attention from my parents and be banished from the room. Perhaps I could get sent from the classroom, and then find my way home. My plan was soon executed. Opening my mouth I started to sing at the top of my voice, quickly gaining the attention of the teacher and my classmates.

"Please be quiet, Jackie," the teacher said as she walked to where I was lustily bellowing one of the few songs I had memorized for the entertainment of doting grandparents.

"Stop that noise immediately," she ordered. Getting no response, she grabbed my hands and planted me at a desk in one of the back corners of the room. "Stay there and don't move," she commanded.

Moving the other pupils to the front (at the desks farthest removed from me), she resumed her lesson.

This was not going at all as I had planned! By now I should have been thrown out of the classroom and on my way home. I continued to sing as loudly as I could for the rest of the morning until the noon bell signalled the end of the end of our three-hour school session, and the completion of my first school day.

Mother was waiting for me in the hallway; she and Teacher had a brief, animated conversation before Mum took my hand and led me from the building. I was so glad to see her that even my brother didn't look so bad.

"Your teacher told me you sang in class all morning," she said. "Now why did you do that?"

"Don't know," I lied.

Both Mother and Father lectured me that evening while I hung my head and looked at my shoes, hoping they would punish me by not sending me to school the next day.

Tuesday morning was a repeat of the previous day; Mother pushed the stroller and dragged me just as before.

Entering the classroom the teacher greeted me with, "Well, do you intend to sing today?" I nodded my head. Once again she led me to the desk in the corner, and once again I treated the class to my repertoire of songs until the noon bell rang.

I was getting discouraged—two days of disrupting the class, and I still hadn't been sent home. What was worse, my parent's lecture that evening was much more severe than the first.

Next morning repeated the first two except that when questioned by the teacher, "Are you going to sing again?" I shook my head "No." So I was invited to join the rest of the class and sat, half listening to the teacher reading a story, and half wondering what I could possibly do to escape from school and go home.

After about an hour I realized I needed to go to the bathroom. The procedure, as explained to us, was to raise one's hand, request permission to be excused, and go to the toilets for whatever reason. I tentatively raised my hand and quickly withdrew it. It had occurred to me that if I obeyed nature's call where I sat, I would surely be banished from the classroom and could then go home!

The idea seemed foolproof, so without wasting any time, I proceeded to relieve my bowels, in my clothing, where I sat. Immediately I had grave misgivings. This was far more uncomfortable than I could have possibly imagined. But there was no turning back, and I nervously awaited the teacher's reaction. A boy seated close to me raised his hand.

"Jackie has pooped in his trousers," he blurted out. The teacher cautiously approached and confirmed that the boy's information was indeed correct.

"You just sit there and don't move! I'm going to send for your mother!" she screamed. I was triumphant. My plan was going to work and I would be going home with Mum, although I was very uncertain of her reaction to my efforts. I didn't have to wait long before my mother came storming into the classroom with a face like thunder.

"What do you think you are doing, you dirty little boy," she growled as she grasped my hand to remove me from the room. Now it must be understood that way back then, all British schoolboys wore short pants. Thus, as Mum pulled me to my feet, gravity inevitably took over. The result of my indiscretion slid down my legs and into my socks. Mother then pulled me, uncomfortable and aromatic, to the toilets. She used great wads of tissue paper in a not-too-successful attempt to clean me up.

We left the school grounds and headed home. I was elated. My plan had worked, although I was sure I would never use that method of liberation again.

Once home I received one of the few spankings on my rear that I can remember, although it was the most painful, and was only administered after my mother, with great foresight, had scrubbed me spotless.

The remainder of my first school year must have been uneventful, as I can remember nothing until we moved from our house to another neighborhood in London and, of course, another school.