A pour of the moment iPhone recording MY first memory
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Senior (55+)Accents
AustralianTranscript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
my first memory. My first memory comes to me in a flash, as if someone had turned a television on inside my head. I see it now. In colour. I can still smell and feel as if I've travelled back in. John, I was feeling very grown up and manly, sitting on the withers of a jet black gilding, my little fingers wrapped tightly in the course here of the horse's mane. My father ride the horses, it part of it. It was his huge shoulders, almost as wide as tall, and the massive worked his old hand, one on the rain, the other resting on his thigh. He moved in a rhythm with the animal. Somehow I knew that if I wanted to stay where I was, it was up to me. There would be no steadying hand. I can still see the other riders around us to my right, at least two on my left. Three, maybe more, all dressed as my father in Kharkiv, Gibbon brace overalls, a faded to pocket work shirt and the hat pulled low, all slightly different. Yet the same sweat stained, battered and worn with purpose. I still hear the sound of these men quietly talking. I can't make out the words, but my father's thick. Ours broke that deep rhythm, somehow comforting and reassuring just behind me, like a smell that rich smoke from his ever present log cabin, hand rolled cigarette downing from the corner of his mouth. I knew that if I wanted to remain with these tough, hard men that I should make no sound and that day and try and be a part of the horse. I don't know what or how I was privileged to be riding with my father. But even at three, I knew that this was special and I must not in any way beyond the smallest nuisance. As a group, my father and I in the centre, we rode past the would heap and are simple three room farmhouse on the right set proud. I felt like like a man on my horse with the other man. I didn't know where we were going or why, but I was there and loving it suddenly destined from behind the wood. Hey, Toby, Sheepdog puppy came bounding out, barking with joy, wanting to be a part of it. The black gilding started and jigged at the noise, my father having to rein him in. I sitting in the front office settle felt myself falling, the horse's mind slipping through my fingers before I could utter a sound. I was falling. I landed on my back, staring up at these great horses. Still, I kept my silence so as not to make in my father angry. I knew that at any moment I would be trampled. Yet as if by magic, every hoof somehow missed my prone body. And then they were gone. I stood struggling to regain the wind knocked out of me. Tears of relief and shine rolled down my cheeks. I made no sound. I resisted calling for my dad, even though I longed to call for him. For even at such a tender age, I had seen what could result if I appeared to be blubbing over such a thing. I quickly wiped away my tears and turned around to the writers my father had reigned his horse in and was looking back at me, his space like stone. You could only see his nose and mouth from under the shadow of his hat, his moustache perfectly trimmed. As always, the smoke from his cigarette languidly curling up past that. My stomach turned to us. What would happen now, although at my young age had not yet felt my father's displeasure. I had many times seeing my mother, older sister and two older brothers get his club like backhand or feel it's built as I still dare. I watched as he joked the horse's head around, turn to the left and dug in his heels at a canter. He looked past me, reaching down. He snatched me up by the scruff of my neck without checking the horse. I was dumped back where I had started, not a word spoken, then dumped over the fence of the house yard. My short ride, Oh Bob!