What is the earliest memory you have?
This one’s easy, although my husband says it’s impossible. I know it’s true.
In May of 1952, Dad was working odd shifts after returning from Korea after a year overseas in the Marine Reserves. He’d come home nine months earlier. You can read the story of his homecoming here.
Grandpa had gone to the hospital to pick up Mom who had just given birth to my new brother, Loren. Dad had stayed at home with me in our rented house on East North Street in Anaheim, California. I looked up to see Grandpa through the screen door carrying my baby brother onto the porch. I can still see that moment. I was 27 months old.
Years ago, during a casual conversation, a psychologist friend asked about my earliest memory. When I told him he asked what I thought of my brother now. I told him that Loren and Grandpa were two of my favorite people on the planet. I loved and admired them both. I’d had a very happy childhood. He smiled and nodded. Yes, Grandpa and Loren had been foundational in my development. Lucky for me they were such good people.
Although Loren and I haven’t lived close for decades, I think you can see how much we still like each other even after 70 years.