When I graduated from high school, age 17, one of the first things I did that summer of 1974 was hitch-hike back to my childhood town. I knocked on the door of the house where I used to live when I was a little kid. I asked the people who lived there if I could take one last look. They were very nice. They gave me a guided tour of the whole house. Every room bringing back a hundred memories.
I lived in that house for seven years from age 5 to age 11. Which can be a long time when you’re a kid. We moved suddenly, and inexplicably (nothing in my family history was ever clear) in the summer of 1968 when I was 11. But I can still clearly see in my mind, every room, every closet, and every cupboard in that house. Every nook and cranny.
My bedroom was on the second floor . From my window I could see our backyard, and the railroad tracks beyond that, and the old brick high school beyond that, with the playground and basketball courts. It was about as idyllic a view as a little kid could ever want.
I still dream about that house all the time. I guess my urge to get back there was some kind of return-to-the-womb drive.