I can't honestly claim that I remember the specific incident herewith recorded, though I can confidently claim that I remember many similar ones that continued for many years following.

The way my mom tells the story, I was right around 2 years old, give or take a few months. My folks and I were entering a store where outside stood a mechanical pony -- the kind that you put a coin in and it would rock you for about 1 or 2 minutes as it made galloping hoof sounds interspersed with an occasional whiney or two. I had never seen one of these creatures before, nor a real equine, yet apparently there was some sort of instinctual reaction from the depths of my being -- though not knowing what the creature was, I knew I had to touch it, to hold it, to embrace it in some form or fashion.

They told me that as soon as I saw the mechanical horse I lunged for it so violently I almost came out of my dad's arms, and immediately began squealing with glee. My dad asked, "Do you want to ride the horsey?" The squeals began to take on the form of the the new word I'd just heard as I continued to lunge toward the creature -- "Horseeeey!!!! Horseeeeeeeeeeeeey!!!!!!"

They told me I rode the 'horseeeeey' about 5 times before my dad began to get tired of my highly emotionally charged tantrums each time he tried to pry me off the creature. They told me I cried for the remainder of the shopping trip. And that day set a sort of precedent for all future shopping trips where there was a mechanical horse near the entrance.

My dad introduced me to a live equine covered with fur very soon after at a pony ride featuring live ponies, and my first passion was sealed. No one quite ever determined for certain where my obsession with horses came from -- there were no horsemen or women in my ancestral background. The family used to blame it on the American Indian in our family -- my grandmother on my mom's side was 1/3 Cherokee Indian -- but the Cherokee traveled mostly on foot along the Appalachian mountain range. Who knows where it came from. Who cares? It was love at first sight...and a love for life that has never waned.

Scientists claim that people can retain no conscious memories before the age of 3 or 4. They claim that the things some BELIEVE they remember are actually memories planted in their consciousness by stories told by family members. Funny though, I swear I can not only remember the story, but also the sensory memories as well --- I can almost remember what the front of the store looked like when I first spotted the mechanical horse. I can remember my dad sitting me in the saddle and guiding my feet in the little stirrups. I remember him wrapping my fingers around the handlebars that went through the pony's ears and him sternly telling me to "Hold on, OK?" And I remember that wonderful rhythmic rocking motion, and the breeze blowing in my face..and I remember laughing. It was sheer ecstasy.

And today, many decades later, not much of anything brings me more relaxation than a leisurely trail ride, either alone or with friends, or the pure joy of galloping across an open field on a beautiful day, laughing wildly as the wind blows in my face. "Horseeeeey!!!! Horseeeeeeeeeeeeey!!!!!!!!!

...there was Panama.

I was born into this world of mortal consciousness on a Tuesday in late February, in the 50's, on a US Air Force base in the Panama Canal Zone. Can't say that I have any conscious recollection of my brief stay there however, as we flew back in to the states for dad's new station in Orlando, Florida when I was but 18 mos. old. We still have some photos of some of the local kids from neighboring villages in Panama, posing for the cameras with sun-blackened skin stark naked and grinning from ear to ear -- dad said all the natives in Panama had a peculiar obsession with cameras, photography and posing for pictures -- they would literally fight over the opportunity to pose for a camera. Dad also said the kids never wore clothing -- partly because of the heat and partly due to poverty -- and he said the adults didn't wear much more. I've often been curious about cultures accustomed to such common nudity -- seems to me with that sort of "in-your-face" kind of sexuality on a 24/7 basis, that nakedness would sort of lose its ability to arouse. In fact, the thought of seeing my family, friends, neighbors and co-workers naked for even a moment frightens me beyond words (and I'm sure they would be equally frightened of me -- and justly so).

My mom has told me stories of battling roaches over 3" long, along with tarantulas and scorpions crawling about all over the place, and a phenomena that science is still debating the validity of...ball lightning -- though my mom doesn't feel the need for science to confirm what she herself witnessed on many occasions.

And from my mom's telling of it, our flight to the states was rather harrowing too. Dad had gone on ahead to secure and prepare a home for his new family so my mom and I were traveling alone. She said we ran into several incredibly severe storms on the flight and the turbulence was so severe that she was almost certain we would be the unfortunate victims of a plane crash. She claims I slept soundly through the entire ordeal. Ah, the bliss of infancy...

Next stop: Orlando, Florida.

"You should WRITE!" they say.

"About WHAT?!"

"Write about your LIFE!"

I doubt my life has been much different than yours in most ways -- nothing unusually noteworthy has ever happened to me. Nor am I a person of special interest to anyone, save my cherished friends and family. Thus I have great difficulty imagining that anyone would be even remotely interested in reading about my life, as tense and exciting as it has indeed been at various points in time.

But then I began considering how much I would have enjoyed a written record of the many stories told by my grandparents...and even stories told by their parents, and those before them...about their lives -- lives lived in a world quite different from my own, in times lost forever now.

So I have a mind to reconsider the value of such a noble endeavor, if for no other reason than for posterity's sake. For surely when the stories are read years from now, my own life and times will be a novel collection of stories as nostalgic as those my grandparents could have told. And who knows if perhaps such a journey back in time may also help me gain more insight into who I am and who I have become...and who I have yet to discover...as the mystery of ME continues to unfold.