First home

Well, I've managed to light a tiny fire in my family as we begin to think about our first homes.  I always think of my first home as a house in Walthamstow, which is the first house that I have any recollections of (more in another post), but after careful interrogation of my older brother, who has had the role of paterfamilias thrust upon him now that our parents are gone, I've tracked down my real first home.  Here's a satellite shot of the neighbourhood in England with the "A" marker being at the approximate location of my birth home:

The actual house looks to be a row house or a semi-detached house perhaps, but I've no idea if this is the same house that was there at the time (why do I suddenly feel like Leopold Bloom?  I do really exist, don't I?).  I was only there for the first year of my life, so I have no real recollections of it.  Yet I'm fascinated by the thought that going back into that house might have some effect on me, might dredge up some ancient neural circuitry.  I wonder if it would be possible?

I had a wonderful conversation with my other brother about the next house along in our family history, the first one that I remember, and the fascinating thing is that I thought I had pretty much put together all of my memories of that house into one tiny package and as soon as brother started to spill the stories, I remembered more of the spaces and more of the feelings associated with them.  It was an eerie sensation to have him re-spark my childhood anxieties about a dark, empty ground floor room that I had forgotten existed.   

Comments

[Carin]

The first two places my family lived after I was born were an apartment in NYC and another in Philadelphia, both before I was 2 1/2 and neither of which has left any recoverable trace in my memory. The third place, an apartment in Washington where we lived when I was 3, I remember only because there were scary splotches on the wall in my bedroom. My mom put jungle animal stickers over them, but the outlines of those were even scarier. What's interesting from my perspective now is that the way I remember the splotches and the animals is where they were in my peripheral vision when I was in my bed. That's true of a lot of my very earliest visual/spatial memories: they're child's-eye views fixed at a very particular height or perspective. It's as if I never moved or even necessarily turned my head – so I'm having a hard time connecting those very static, conscious early memories with any three-dimensional or navigational memories I might have formed at the same age.

The house I do remember, the one we moved to just after I turned four, is the one my mom still lives in, so of course it's very difficult to separate what I remember from what I know now. I do have some memories of being in spaces in that house that have since been remodeled out of existence. One thing I've always loved about that house that's still true about it is that you can sit at one end of the house and look straight through three rooms out the other end. I unconsciously replicated that in the house I bought in my 30s, but I didn't realize how important that feature was to me until I rented a house last fall, and another this spring in Toronto, whose view from the front garden through to the back was blocked. Now I know that that kind of punctuated prospect is a top priority when I'm looking for my next house.

As long as I'm hijacking your comments, I should relate a through-the-looking-glass experience from the house I grew up in. When I was very small, when we first lived in that house, my sister and I used to play a game where we'd hold a large shaving mirror (the size of a sheet of typing paper) under our chins and walk through the house, looking down at the mirror, which created the impression that the ceiling was the floor. We'd find ourselves stepping over barriers at doorways that were present overhead but absent underfoot. That very vivid, disorienting but thrilling experience has fixed the landscape of the ceiling in my mind complete with obstacles that were later remodeled away, like the horrid, spider-like cast-iron chandelier that my mom got rid of as soon as she decently could. That is definitely a navigational memory that has a very real kinaesthetic aspect to it, I think because of the feeling that one had to move so deliberately in mirror-world.

[Nora Streed]

I loved that mirror game too, Carin! We once tried it outside in woods with thick foliage both above and below. Poison ivy was involved. You reminded me also of the terror of cabbage roses; I still detest them. I had curtains with a repeating and especially vivid pattern of cabbage roses. Looming closer and receding. My mother made them and apparently had enough left over to make a dress for me, and bits of it appeared in doll clothes and quilts for years. Eventually they were replaced by pale blue large-checked gingham, which loomed less but still annoyed me.

Interesting that most of my windows now are not covered at all. Or have pale solid color panels that go halfway up. Or a bamboo shade.

I remeber nothing about the apartment my parents lived in when I was born. The second place, also an apartment, I recall only because I lived in it again years later. The house that I most associate with 'house-ness' was my grandparents. We moved into it when I was 14 or so. It has a floor plan that allows a circle to form if a door to a hallway is opened: foyer, hallway, kitchen, dining room, living room as you go counter clockwise. I still look for that floor plan, and often feel it should be there when it isn't. I love watching the dogs race around it.

[Colin]

Ok, I'm really jealous about this mirror game. I wonder what would happen if I wandered around campus today with a mirror under my chin. Probably, nobody would be surprised at all. I'm really interested by how many of these early recollections involve patterns, and I've got some of my own recollections to share later that are similar. There's some evidence that children apprehend spaces in an entirely different way to adults and what Carin says about her memories being locked into particular views fits very well with this evidence. I haven't gotten very far into Bachelard yet, but I'm already wondering whether he addresses this at all--that the psychological (and neurological) equipment we bring to the task of understanding and connecting with places varies through the lifespan. Given the nature of the book, it seems unlikely, but we'll see.

This is fun! Thanks both of you for contributing such interesting comments.

[Carin]

Nora, I think "The Terror of Cabbage Roses" would make a great title for a novel. For some reason, we never tried the mirror game outside; I'm a little alarmed to think what it would be like to walk around on the sky. I might have to try it in the safety of my back yard. And it occurs to me that I should ask my sister if her kids have tried the mirror game, because I wouldn't want them to miss the experience.

Colin, I'm happy to hear my snapshot-like early memories are consistent with the evidence.

Back to Bachelard...

[Nora Streed]

See also the use of mirrors to alleviate phantom limb pain: http://content.nejm.org/cgi/content/full/357/21/2206

Same idea, really. It's very difficult and disorienting under open sky, but the trees seemed to work ok. You don't have to put it right under your chin, just obstruct your line of sight to your feet.

[Nora Streed]

I've found it interesting to talk with my sister about childhood memories and perceptions. She is 7 years younger, and has these elaborate and detailed memories of specific mean older sister episodes that I simply don't recall. I believe her, but I don't recall doing anything that could even be misinterpreted in these ways. But we have been able to triangulate a number of other things about sequences of events and intrafamilial squabbles.

[Nora Streed]

Sorry, using mobile phone to post and hit send too soon. One of the most interesting things though has been our recollections of the spaces we lived, and the comforts and anxieties associated with each.