"What's your earliest memory?"

My earliest recollection is a toss up between two rather momentous events. If I had a choice of earliest memory, I most assuredly would not have picked either one.

My first Smokey was hit and killed by a car (I found her), and my friend Robert De Valentine was stung by a bee between the eyes and suffered anaphylactic shock.

Okay, Smokey: I call her 'the first' because my Mom had this weird thing about cats: we were allowed to keep getting them, so long as they were called Smokey. Don't ask, because I don't know. Actually, when we moved into the country and got our first cat there, I was able to convince her to name him Ginger, since he was not a smoky colour in the least. I won the battle, but the cat lost the war when he ventured into the backyard of our neighbours, owners of a Great Dane, an afghan and two poodles.

When I was four, I attended preschool in a church basement down the street, across the big, bad road and over two blocks. Assisting me in this was Mrs. Capener, a really nice lady who lived across from us. Every other morning, I would sit on my front stoop until Mrs. C came out her front door. After a quick wave to Mom, I would skip down to the light, keeping an eye on my guardian the entire time. The light would change; I would cross the road and take her hand. We swung our arms and sang songs until we got to preschool, by which time I was warmed up and ready to play the active little participant. That fateful day, I had gotten safely back to my side of the street and was making my way home when I spied Smokey lying at the end of the drive. I went over and began stroking her fur, all the while chastising her for venturing too close to the busy road. What happened next was a blur of Mom running down the steps and scooping me up to hide me in my room while she figured out what to do with my beloved pet. I remember the Eaton's delivery truck pulling into the lane (that was when they still cared about their clientele), and having to run for her purse while she tried to mask her sobs from the rather puzzled man with her package. We didn't have a proper ceremony, and to this day I get sad when I think of that disservice.

Although I cannot accurately remember which one of these incidents occurred first, I will say that this one was my first real experience with fear, adrenaline and nightmares. Robert lived two houses down and was therefore my tricycle buddy. He was such a good guy, always taking my hand and watching out for me in a big-brotherish manner. I truly believe my relationship with him is what led me to seeking out more male friendships in later life.

We were out on his front lawn, goofing around as only four-year-olds can, when he stopped and stood straight up, a look of panic on his face. At first I wasn't sure why the festivities had ceased, but it didn't take long to see the reason: Robert's face was blowing up like a balloon. His breath coming fast and hard, he tried to convince me to run for help without making me hysterical. His efforts fell on deaf ears, because I couldn't believe what I was seeing and was getting steadily more upset. Thank heavens I was able to shake it off and run for his mother, who called an ambulance. I was sent home and had to wait until the next day to see my friend with his face intact, to assure myself everything would be all right: all I wanted to do was hold his hand.

Posted at 12:56 p.m.