Memory is such a strange thing. I was sitting on the front porch just now trying diligently to recall what my first real memory is. It’s confusing because there are so many things I’ve been told that happened. But no, in truth I don’t really remember them.

But then, yes, I am certain the first real memory I have was when I was about six years old. My babysitter, who at least at that time seemed a very old lady, would sit on the floor with me. And we would take those little brown paper caps that chocolates come in, pretend they were houses. And we’d put marbles in them, pretending they were people.