From birth to around 5 years of age, our memories are all second hand.
What I know about my existence prior to my 5th birthday consists entirely of what I've been told, read about, or saw in photographs.
I know my father and grandfather built our house with a $5,000 GI loan. I've seen photographs of me toddling around it with our pre-war Plymouth in the background. At around 3 years old, my mother said I somehow got my arm caught in the ringer of an old-style ringer washing machine. She also told me that she knew it was time to wean me from the bottle when I toddled into the living room holding two bottles in my arms and one by the nipple with my teeth. I had opened the fridge myself.
"It takes a village" is not a novel idea (no apologies to Hillary Clinton). On the street where my father built our house lived a mixture of young families and older empty nesters. All were happy the war was over and were trying to get their lives back to some sense of normalcy. All the small children (the baby boom was in full swing) were watched over by everyone. Cuts and scrapes were taken care of by whomever was around. Cookies and Kool-aid were handed out by all. Parents weren't worried about "sickos" or perverts. Television was still a novelty and most warm summer evenings were spent outside on the lawn or front porch after supper. My father said you could always hear the radio playing softly from someone's open window; usually "Fibber McGee & Molly", "The Lone Ranger", or "Gunsmoke".
What I know about my existence prior to my 5th birthday consists entirely of what I've been told, read about, or saw in photographs.
I know my father and grandfather built our house with a $5,000 GI loan. I've seen photographs of me toddling around it with our pre-war Plymouth in the background. At around 3 years old, my mother said I somehow got my arm caught in the ringer of an old-style ringer washing machine. She also told me that she knew it was time to wean me from the bottle when I toddled into the living room holding two bottles in my arms and one by the nipple with my teeth. I had opened the fridge myself.
"It takes a village" is not a novel idea (no apologies to Hillary Clinton). On the street where my father built our house lived a mixture of young families and older empty nesters. All were happy the war was over and were trying to get their lives back to some sense of normalcy. All the small children (the baby boom was in full swing) were watched over by everyone. Cuts and scrapes were taken care of by whomever was around. Cookies and Kool-aid were handed out by all. Parents weren't worried about "sickos" or perverts. Television was still a novelty and most warm summer evenings were spent outside on the lawn or front porch after supper. My father said you could always hear the radio playing softly from someone's open window; usually "Fibber McGee & Molly", "The Lone Ranger", or "Gunsmoke".
