During these years, when I was two, three, and four, we lived in a small house within a few blocks of the home of my grandfather on my father's side. This past  summer I went with my daughter to find that house, not having seen it in 50 years. It was a sunny day, and we found it vacant and for sale so that we could approach it and even look through the windows. Inside, I could see the spot on the living room floor where I began to write my "a,b,c's." In the back was the bedroom where I lay in my crib with the chickenpox. To the right of the front door was a closet where "Uncle" Chet, who with his wife Lou were friends of my parents and shared the rent of the house with us, told me a wolf was hiding. He and I would sit on the couch listening to the huffing from behind the door. These are my earliest memories.
When we left I picked a flower from the yard and brought it home for pressing. Another delicate, tangible link to long ago as I follow the thread of my life story. |