First memory

This is one of my earliest memories; I think it must be from the spring of 1982. It is more two mental images than a sequence of events.

In the first image I am in my father's arms, patting at the wall of the house with a paintbrush loaded with nice green paint. In the second, I still in my father's arms, but now we are indoors and I am being washed at the sink.

I have reconstructed or perhaps confabulated a sequence of events--asking to "help" paint the house, my father's handing me the paintbrush and lifting me to reach the appropriate place, a few daubs at the wall in my father's arms, the inevitable mess, and then inside to wash the paint off (I have a vague notion I made a pretty big mess pretty quickly, and my house-painting career was a brief one).

Other than the visual images (the green wall of the house, the paintbrush, the sink) my principle impressions are, in the first place, being surprised that the painting is not going better--a sort of non-verbal it's harder than it looks!, and, in the second, surprise verging on awe at the comparison between my father's big hands and my little ones as he cleans them at the sink.