My earliest memory

We were in the Italian Alps, parked precariously close to the edge. Probably millions of feet above sea level. OK, at least 10,000. We were above the clouds, too high up to be careless, we were children. He was 5, my older brother, and for some reason, had been entrusted with the keys to the car. I tried to make sense of it. He was older, he was smarter; nope, even at 4 years old, I didn't think this was a very good idea. I would be proven right by the events that followed.

Joseph, we'll call him Joseph to protect his identity, and because that's actually his name, Joseph looked out of place in this mountain setting. I'm sure we both did, but I couldn't tell you what I was wearing that day. He wore his Montreal Expos baseball hat; they've since been traded to Washington DC where they're known as the Washington Nationals, leaving Canada with one lonely major league baseball team: The Toronto Blue Jays; his shiny blue wind breaker, bright blue flare jeans, red and blue plaid shirt and sneakers. He looked flashy, tacky, dare I say, North American. He was dressed flashier than mom would have dressed us back home, but we were in old country.

When we visited Italy, Mom always overdressed for every occasion. She tended to wear all her jewelry at once. Her hands always well manicured with Revlon's signature bronze metallic nail enamel, and her decolletage giving a sneak peak, but not too much, she is a practicing catholic after all. Mom wouldn't be caught dead looking sexy at 76 San Pedro Drive, Hamilton Ontario, L9C 2C6, but here, she let it all hang out like a movie star. You could look, but you couldn't touch, she is Mom after all. Mom wanted the old country to see how well she had done for herself, she wanted old country to know that she had made the right decision to leave, she wanted old country to be a little jealous of what it had lost, because deep down inside, she still loved old country more than new. So feast your eyes on Mom's glamor old country, and her two, typically overweight, North American children. Mom was living the dream.

The events that followed are a blur, peppered with anxiety and memories of my sheer determination to survive. Joseph patiently turned the key to the ignition, his feet barely reaching the pedal, and put the car in reverse. My terror allowed me to witness the event from both the first and third person. In the car we bounced like rag dolls as my life tried to escape in the form of vomit. The car scraped and jolted over mountain rocks, down the hill toward a flock of sheep. We bounced violently in the front seat, my brother never taking his hands off the steering wheel or his eyes off the scenery that kept getting further and further away with every rocky bounce.

Outside, my uncle screamed something in Italian and ran towards the escaped 128, or was it a 500? Whatever car my brother was "driving" was small, European, and stick shift, they're all the same.

Thud, the car came to a stop that jolted my head forward missing the dashboard by a fraction of a centimeter. We were surrounded by sheep, and I realized we had been stopped by a sacrificial lamb. The herd seemed not to notice us. We sat among the herd, welcomed as a suitable replacement for sheep we had just murdered. I could hear my aunt, uncle and mother yelling frantically as they approached the car. My brother remained nonchalant, while I sat nonplussed, incapable of saying a word. As the adult voices came into focus, I could hear their amusement. It calmed me and reassured me that I was alive. My uncle seemed impressed with my brother's bravado. My uncle's pride left me sore, because I knew, had I orchestrated this life threatening event, the reaction wouldn't have been nearly as positive.

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