Year Two, Too Fast

Regarding our first apartment, which I pass on my way to work, I counted the number of floors on building this morning. Memories from 28 years ago are bound to blur, but I was correct in recalling that my baby boy would climb three stories when he learned to crawl. This fitness routine led his first steps along the daffodil-lined sidewalk out front.

In our living room, he’d stand on a stool to call hello to John out the window. John drove a Gator truck—a mini-utility vehicle that hauled trash out of Glenayr every day. He also paid celebrity visits when the sink clogged and the smoke detector beeped. Imagine the awe of a toddler when someone with a tool belt walks through the door. 

Another big source of entertainment was our stereo system. Our busy kid held himself up alongside the sideboard, and with a pincer grasp that would make any mother proud, he’d pull the tape from cassette tapes until they made a marvelous mountain of unplayable music. It was the same pencil we’d use to wind any lost tunes back up, we used to turn on our second-hand TV. 

In April of the second year, I answered a call in our kitchen. By then, we were settled in, and I had painted the walls cobalt-blue checkerboard without Lois's input. Aunt Jane was on the line, asking if we knew any real estate agents. Her friend, Myrna, needed to sell her Westover house, but she was still in the Philippines. A list of numbers in both our handwriting hung taped alongside the telephone receiver, so I jotted down the address.