My earliest memories come to me like flipping through a photo album – sometimes with sound – fleshed out with quick old-time home-movie bursts of context. Some I can tag in time, others I can’t. I tend to chew on them for a bit now and then, so that they aren’t lost.
I’m standing in the driveway of our first house. My friend and neighbor had been playing with me there and had just left, leaving me a bit sad. I turn towards the house and backyard and Dad is there, ready to scoop me up to go back inside.
Photos of my second birthday show a food table and banner up against the wall of a shed my father built at the end of that driveway. At that moment, as I turned to Dad after my friend had gone, there was no shed, so I was not yet two.
I don’t remember much from that first house, which we lived in until I was 3. There was a railroad nearby. My rocking horse was in the basement, which was short, so Mom and Dad had to bend in half to walk down there. I remember watching Pink Panther cartoons at my grandparent’s house while my brother Sonny was being born.
The memories are peaceful, rather idyllic. I like.