Sunday, June 14, 1998

Early imprints can last for an entire lifetime

By Sharon Randall

The first time I set foot in the Atlantic, I was 10 years old, too young to know there would be other oceans, other waters in my life.

Youth, with its limited history, has little basis for comparison. Maybe that's why my first trip to Myrtle Beach left such a lingering memory. Who can forget a first love?

One summer, my mother got tired of being poor, working long hours, living from hand to mouth, week to week.

What she needed, she said, was a vacation. Other people took them. Even people like us. She was sick of hearing them brag about their trips, showing off their snapshots of sunburned relations all having the time of their lives.

If those people could take a vacation, she said, "by God, so can we, even if I have to rob Peter to pay Paul." I didn't know who Peter and Paul were, or what they had to do with vacations, but I didn't dare ask. When my mother took on her "by God" tone of voice, it was best not to bother her with questions.

Next thing I knew, we were headed for Myrtle Beach, five hours away, with my mother and my stepfather taking turns at the wheel, their cigarette ashes blowing in our eyes, while my brothers and I sweated buckets on plastic seats, excited as a pack of Chihuahuas on Christmas Day.

All my life, I'd heard my friends brag about their trips to Myrtle Beach. Seemed everybody I knew went there every summer. I wasn't sure which part seemed most attractive, being there or bragging about it later.

I don't recall much about where we stayed, some cheap motel that has long since gone awash in the endless tidal wave of modern high-rise.

All that water

But I remember the beach, the waves, the sand, the wind and, oh, all that water.

I remember my mother, who feared everything, being for once fearless -- holding my hand as we faced the breakers, laughing when we were knocked down and came up sputtering.

I remember my stepfather, so big and lumbering on land, diving into waves with the grace of a dolphin.

I remember my brother, who was 6, and blind since birth, sitting in the surf grabbing at waves, piling fistfuls of wet sand on his head.

And I remember me -- a mountain child falling in love with the sea, wondering where have you been all my life?

Some people believe that we record memories, not just in our brains, but in all the cells of our bodies -- that experiences in childhood are imprinted in our genes to be passed on for generations.

I like thinking about that. I like to think I can use the past, any part that's useful; that I can hold onto people, places and experiences that have shaped me; that I carry them with me in every part of my being, body, mind and soul.

I also like to think my past remembers me; that loved ones I've lost smile when they think about me; that the mountains where I was born will never forget my name; and even the sand that once held my footprints still remembers the feel of my toes.

Last week, I went to Myrtle Beach again, after a lifetime away. I could swear the waves were saying "welcome home."

Sharon Randall is a winner of the American Association of Sunday and Feature Editors and the Best of the West commentary awards.

Scripps Howard News Service