I have a long memory. I'm glad about that. It seems such a waste to have lived 4 or 5 years and be able to remember very little about it.
By the time I went to school at the age of 4, I had lived a lot. It has only recently become clear to me that some of the memories are imprinted because of some particularly dramatic occurrence associated with a scene or happening.
For example, I have a very clear memory of our 'pram'. (Ah, the days of prams. Buggies just aren't the same!) I remember being in it, the plastic smell of the thin mattress covering the wooden base and the feel of the crumbs underneath it. I remember the feel of the elasticated border all round the hood. I can remember that pram in various locations.
One day, I was in the pram in the front hall of Granny's house. The hall was tiled, red and white, the square tiles set diamond-style from front door to living-room door. Of course, in those days, the hall was very long and very, very high. Sitting in the pram, parked as it was at the end of the stairs, I could see into the Parlour. I can still smell the polish, the mahogany, see the beautiful burgundy-covered arm-chairs and 'parlour chairs', matched by burgundy curtains, the ever-pristine china cabinet, the lovely mahogany fireplace and mantelpiece and the two alcoves, either side of the fireplace, where the 'parlour' books lived.
(Granny was a marvel at keeping house on the most meagre of means. Each year, her curtains and candlewick bedspreads all got a new lease of life, leading to Daddy's famous statement one day, having popped in on the way home for dinner (in the days when dinner was had in the hour between 1 and 2pm)- "Your mother is dyeing again!"
On the day I'm thinking about now, I was left to my own devices for a few minutes and decided to try out the mechanics of the hood. If it was pulled all the way forward, the two hinged arms locked into position, which was interesting, except for the fact that one of my fingers was now also firmly locked under the hood. Of course I was rescued from my predicament - my aunt Mary says she took a few minutes to figure out exactly what the problem was - but I can't help wondering whether my memory of the house at that time would be as clear without a little 'boost'!

My earliest memories? I'm not sure. I know I have a clear picture of my Dad lifting me in the carry-cot out over the newel post at the end of the stairs. Mother couldn't do that because of her bad back. I don't remember the occasion now but I remember remembering the experience, looking up at Daddy's face, seeing the two pale pink soft plastic handles of the carry-cot in his hand and the feeling of being lifted up and over the obstacle. I suppose I couldn't have been much more than six months at the time, I imagine.
I also remember wall-paper and floor-coverings. There was lovely wall-paper in my room, that had puppies. It was paler than the next lot, which I think was put up when my brother Liam was born. (I may have helped in the removal of the first lot!!!) The second paper had black Scotty puppies and Hairy Molly caterpillars, among other creatures.

Another memory I have of the pram is of sitting in it, mid-morning, while Mother left her bread-making to come and twiddle the radio aerial when reception broke down for the Third Programme. Our national radio station, Radio Eireann, had a break in broadcasting in those days from 11am to 1pm and Mother would immediately turn the dial to the 'the Third Programme', BBC Radio's Classical music station. Each morning, during those seemingly long pre-school years, we were treated to magnificent concerts, concertos, operas, anything that was beautiful. Wagner usually got knocked off, as did Mahler. I didn't know who they were at the time. I know now!! Small wonder then that when we visited Granny's on Sunday afternoons and the 'aunties' were doing their homework to the sound of Radio 1 (BBC's Pop Music station) I was hearing a strange, foreign culture.

Yes, I'll have to tell you more about Granny sometime. Her warm house. Always warm. Polished warm terracotta tiles in front of the Rayburn, lovely for bare toes on a winter's morning. Toast, made with a long fork held against the red coals. The smell, always the cosy warm smell of bread baking - brown bread in the oven, 'bastible' bread with raisins and sultanas in an enamel saucepan on top of the stove. Clothes aired to within an inch of their lives in the hot hot-press. Bread, mmm, slices of turnover, dipped in milk and then fried in rasher gravy, spread with Granny's latest attempt at jam (which for some strange reason she called 'Summer drink':) ) And egg-flip. And the most melt-in-the-mouth lamb stew you ever tasted, slow-cooked on top of that Rayburn. And chalk, with which we were allowed to draw on those warm tiles in front of the Rayburn. And the box of dinner-buttons...
And of course, those trips with Granny to Tramore, beginning on the Tramore train... But that's for another night.