It would be nothing short of a lie to say that I actually remember my first years of life, having, as it was, little to do with life's crises except assuring myself of thoughtless comfort. I indulged in the selfish desires that typify the usual child, gleefully absorbed in play until I discovered that I had soiled my diapers or was shot with a pang of hunger. Perhaps it would be accurate to say that my earliest memories were not truly remembrances at all, but rather, images that were repeatedly described to me until I finally adopted them for my own. My earliest actual memories evolve around the age of four years. By that time, I was capable of performing many duties for myself, and my vocabulary was developing rapidly. I had the ability to form conceptions of others, and thus relationships began to materialize. I could now be considered an active family member, for I was no longer solely dependent upon my parents, or my siblings, to be the mechanism behind my existence. I suppose that one might say I was spoiled to the extent that good loving can spoil a child, although each member of my family agrees that I was not spoiled in the obnoxious sense of the word. I was never a nuisance, either to other children or to adults. I promptly did what I was instructed to do; so obedient was I, in fact, that a strong word or tone of voice had the ability to bring tears to my eyes. I caused no trouble, nor did I want any trouble. I recall an encounter with Great Uncle Gust in which I was bidden to sit on his lap. Upon close observation, however, I was appalled to discover that the elderly gentleman had only four fingers on one of his large hands. I shied away from him. This was a rather traumatic sight to deal with at that age, for I had only been exposed to the facets of life which would be classified as "normal." Despite my timidity toward sharp words and unusual events, I cannot say this trait carried over into the physical world of scrapes and bruises. I rarely cried for bodily injury, electing on most occasions to laugh and exclaim about the stupidity of my lack of coordination. A case in point, falling off of Mary's bicycle into her father's bed of roses. I was willing to testify that rose bushes have plenty of thorns; however, I felt no use for tears. A very early and, at the time, quite unpleasant instance would have to include an ill-fated picnic at a local park. After having eaten my fill of grilled pork chops and corn on the cob, I gingerly led the way down a well-worn trail. As I descended, I gradually gained momentum, eventually finding myself duly out of control of my legs. Consequently, I hurdled over a projecting tree root and landed in a ditch of broken beer bottles. I rose in terror, admonishing a true battle scar on my right hand.