Blog 609 – 04.21.2017

My First Real Memory

Often when we try to look back on our first real memory there can be some uncertainty for the repeated stories we heard from our parents can sometimes seem like our own real memories. The earliest memory that I can be sure is really mine is about a fishing day trip I took with my daddy, just the two of us. It is a memory that I cherish and I share it with you hoping it will cause you to remember a precious childhood memory of your own.

I must have been about four or five years old. The top of my head came up to about dad’s belt. As we walked from the car carrying our poles to a place on the river bank I smiled looking up and saw that my daddy was smiling too. He looked like a giant, a friendly giant, my giant. He held my free hand with his to steady me on the rocky terrain. As we got closer to the river bank the ground became muddier and muddier. Soon I was up to my ankles in mud, my feet held fast. I could not move or pull them out. But my giant reached down and plucked me out of the mud. The mud kept one of my shoes. Daddy reached down and retrieved my shoe. I thought he would be mad but he was not. He laughed and said, “We’d better rinse the mud off these shoes and socks when we get to the river bank or mom might have a fit when we get home.” I laughed too, we were co-conspirator, for we both loved my Mama and she had more that enough messes to clean caring for a man and two small sons without muddy shoes and socks to add to the mix.

A more recent memory from just a year ago caused me to recall my first memory vividly. Working as a welding inspector it was my job to visually inspect each weld on a replacement section of gas pipeline being welded just south of Chicago. I had to wade out into a marshy area where forty foot lengths of sixteen inch diameter pipe had been strung on skids so they could be welded together one at a time by two welders one on each side of the pipe. In trying to maneuver around to check the weld on the back and bottom of the pipe I stepped into a particularly muddy area. Pushing one muck boot down in the mud to remove the other soon had both feet stuck fast. I could have slipped a foot out of a muck boot easy enough but was not sure that would be much help. I called out to the workers around me announcing my embarrassing predicament. One young worker with a shovel came to my rescue and dug me out. I could have panicked and fretted but I did not for my first memory of my daddy the giant plucking me easily out of the mud reassured me that my perfect Father, a true Giant would rescue me. He happened to have an angel on duty nearby disguised as a pipeline construction worker to whom He delegated the assignment.

I don’t think daddy and I caught any fish on that first fishing trip together, but daddy caught a small one-shoed mud cat and I sunk my hook deep into the heart of a whopper, a really big one, my giant. I miss you, Daddy, but I am confident that your heaven has a river full of big fish and that there is a place kept warm right next to you and a pole with my name on it waiting for me. Thank you for the memory that has stayed with me over sixty years and still warms my heart. The memory of a giant, James Clifford White, and a happy little boy fishing with his daddy, a memory that reminds me that I am and have always been guided, guarded, and protected. So are you my friends.

Your friend and fellow traveler,

David James White