One of my first memories is of moving from one small town to another small town. I am put into the passenger seat of a truck that carries our furniture and belongings, and I sit and chat with the driver all the way to our new place, a drive that takes several hours. I do not know the driver, but I am not afraid. I am three years old and I am on an adventure.
I remember the smell of leather and gasoline in the truck, as well as the burly man who drives it. He has dark brown beard and shaggy hair, and he smiles a lot. He wears a shirt and blue jeans, and he has very white teeth. The sun is shining. The memory is crystal clear in my mind, like a snapshot in history taken the instant the truck turns to drive down the street that would later become my everyday walk to school.
I do not remember where my parents are.
This pattern repeats itself through-out my life; I never know when to be afraid, or at the very least cautious. Later in my life I am going to repeat a pattern of cheerfully engaging in situations that quickly turn out to be outside of my control. Sometimes I will be lucky like I was that day in the truck, and nothing will go pear-shaped. A lot of times, I will not.
