I can't be sure, but I believe my earliest memory was when I was two years old walking across the street from my Grandmother's house in the snow, to the house in which my parents and I were to begin living. My mother is holding my hand, but being as stubborn then as I am now, I insisted on walking unaided and promptly fell flat on my face in the snow.
I can see things I remember. My father's trilby hat, an essential fashion item in the hat-making town where I grew up. His sport coat has a dotty texture; I remember it was made from rough tweed, which felt scratchy. He is strongly drawn, whereas my mother is hardly there at this time apart from her paisley headscarf. The small figure, is shrugging away Dad's protective hand. The open door (it was green) of our new house, with it's bright interior and windows is welcoming; in contrast the neighbour's door is smaller and darker, as is the interior. My father grew to dislike the neighbour. He was a sensitive man.
Our Last Conversation