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.
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