My very first childhood memory is an abstract tableau in the backyard of my house, viewed in the dim light of a smeared peach sunset, on a warm Southern California evening.  

I am certain that this memory is preserved from the mind of a very small child because, when I conjure it up now there is a lazy quality to it; a timeless pre-verbal feeling that accompanies the image with a sensation unique to kids: A kind of unconscious powerlessness intertwined with pure unadulterated wonder. 

I simply can’t remember a time when I did not remember this scene.   

The perspective is unusual, like a snapshot taken from a spot quite close to the ground; where the foreground of speckled pebbles seems somehow tremendously important and the old splintered fence post soars impossibly high like a cartoon skyscraper or the launch tower of a rocket ship, disappearing to a sharp point stabbed into the velvety twilight sky. 

When I was little, there was so much that went on over my head.

That sunset vision could be any time of the year since seasons are not native to the region where I was born.  The air temperature feels no different from my body temperature as if the air itself is an extension of my skin or my body has no boundary.  There is no evening breeze.  The air is still, but not stifling. 

No noises can be heard except for the listless droning of unenthusiastic suburban crickets, the muffled whoosh of distant traffic from an invisible freeway and the soft spitting of a neighbor’s lawn sprinklers.  The shouts from the horde of big kids, who play Kick-the-Can or dodge ball in the street, cannot be heard.  They must have been called in to dinner or it is past their bedtime.  No one is yelling at me to come inside, to wash my hands, to sit down and eat, for God’s sake you need to eat!  I remember being excited by the silence, breathing it in and holding it, trying to make it last, savoring it like Christmas candy.

The smooth grey paving stones that line the path along the asphalt driveway are delightfully cool under my bare feet and my heart pounds with the anticipation of exploration, no different, no less thrilling, than any other brave adventurer’s first step into a virgin land.

I know that I am not allowed to go here by myself, into the little side yard past the garage where the trashcans are kept, but no one is watching me now and the strange smell, the sweet mysterious vapors beckon.

And then I see them high up, over head:

A linear pattern of geometric silhouettes floats magically far above me. Each shape is held equidistant from its fellows, hovering in space, connected but not touching, suspended cleverly so as to leave no trace of the wire which holds them.

Pierced hexagons, flat circles and thin cylinders dangle from invisible wires hung along the fence, like daring circus performers. I know that I should not touch them, even if they were in reach.  No one can touch them except my father who has instructed, I believe, the dust motes in the air to not mar their smooth and shining finish. It is imperative that these small pieces must be perfect, that no flaws can be seen upon their bright coats - although once taken down and assembled, no one will ever see them again.

They are a set of metal nuts, bolts and washers which have just been painted in glossy black and they glisten with the golden reflections of the honeyed sunset sky.

All I can see are car parts, car parts, beautiful, beautiful car parts.