Helsinki 1968-71. I was scared and cried when the song 'Indians Indians Ride' (a Finnish children's song) was sung to me. I couldn't speak yet, but I understood a lot. Later years I started telling stories about the time when 'You weren't my mother yet.' Or 'We used to have...' According to my mother, this phase lasted a couple of years before the memories were forgotten.
A few stories from the time 'Before'. 'We had moss on the walls between the logs. The plates were bumpy, not as the plates 'now'. The mail was brought in a roll and by horse. We had sheep and other animals. Grandfather (also in this life) lived with us and we had to be afraid of the Native Americans. One time we were riding with my grandfather and the Native Americans caught us. Then the light came on and now I'm here.'
The second, short story was about the war. If the sounds of an airspace alert or bombing were heard on the TV, I started to cry. I told what kind of clothes and weapons we had before. 'When that loud noise was heard, I took people to the basement for safety.' My mother was also involved in this. And based on her story about my description of the guns, it might have been earliest WW1, most likely before. This story ended that the basement burned and we got white clothes.
I have to mention that when I was living in Washington DC and they finally opened up a museum for Native Americans, 600 different tribes in south and north America attended. I spent a whole week enjoying drumming, dancing and storytelling. The celebrations inspired me to draw a feather tattoo. The most loved tattoo I have. Huge respect, even though I used the old word Indian.