I'm Going Back to the Start

Sometimes our senses have a better memory than our brains do. My maternal grandmother passed away when I was just five years old, but I can still remember what her face powder smelled like. Spearmint gum smells like my paternal grandmother, who has been gone since 1991, and coffee smells like home. Not my house, because I rarely drink coffee, but home, where I grew up; where my parents were, where my friends were, where my bike and my toys and my pets were. Where my security is. A place where my family was young. Healthy. Alive.

I remember so many things about The House on Dewey Street...

The Early Years: A.K.A. I'm Telling Mom!

To say I had a traumatic childhood would be a bit of a stretch. I was never abused, never witnessed a disturbing event, never disfigured in an accident--unless you count the barely visible scar on my right thumb from slamming it in my dad’s truck door. As childhoods go, I would say I got pretty lucky.

But I was the youngest of three sisters who, for a brief time which I barely remember, all shared the same bedroom. As anyone who has ever lived with more than one female can attest, the opportunity for disaster was rich.