Left to my own devices

One of the sad realities of life is that, while we may be, say, 40 years of age, we only retain firm memories of perhaps 33 to 35 years of those four decades. Of course, memories of being diapered, laying in one's own poo and unable to articulate thoughts aside from the occasional (frequent?) bawling or tantrum session may not be quite what we want to hold on to. Of course, there are things I wish I remembered. Mama, for example. She was my maternal, Hungarian-born great-grandmother who emigrated to the United States in the early 1900s. She and my mom were very close, and mom has made it clear how much mama (real name Marie) loved me. She'd come to visit us and thought the world of me. She died when I was a little over three years old, so there are no memories of her, just some pictures and what mom has told me. There are snippets of memory. There's the brief remembrance of toddling across the ranch house my parents and I lived in during the '70s and '8...

Growing up on South Draper St. in Champaign, IL., I had the best bedroom a boy could wish for. With walls and trim painted in orange and beige, it was a fun little room. In the evenings and on the weekends I'd watch PBS on the small black & white TV situated across from the bed. On the bed, I'd sometimes build a fort and pretend I was defending it from an oncoming horde. A desk somehow fit in there, as well, and I'd put the small blue typewriter my parents gave me on it, and plunk-out short stories, or use it to interview my 3rd grade teacher for a writing project. Of everything in my childhood bedroom on Draper St., I think perhaps my favorite part of it was the window. This portal to the outside world was big enough for me to sit on the sill and take-in what was beyond, yet feel safe enough within the confines of the room itself. The window looked-out onto our back yard, where there was a tall Sycamore tree (so tall, in fact, that I could see it from the play...