I think the absolute earliest memory I have is of my Mother giving me a bath in the kitchen sink. There was an orange glow coming from the wall sconce. It had one of those mustard-gold colored shades. A remnant from the sixties since I was born in 1971. The basin of the sink was silver so it must have been stainless steel and as I was having my evening bath in it, I must have been a baby. It strikes me as somewhat odd now, bathing an infant in the kitchen sink. But hey, my Mother was a busy woman with five of us running around. Why fill up the tub? And I'm pretty damn sure we didn't have one of those baby-size table top tubs. The light, the sink and the person above me is about all I recall. Nothing specific. It could have been my Dad giving me a bath for all I remember but I've learned he was hands-off when it came to things like diapers and baths. I'm thinking it was Mom.

I've plenty of memories of kindergarten and what seemed like eternal stretches of Summer with Mom. Since my Dad was at work and my brothers and sister in school it was just the two of us in the morning and afternoon. After a hard day in kindergarten working out Dick & Jane's schedule, milk, cookies and nap time I'd walk home. Alone of all things! Imagine a five year old walking home from kindergarten by herself. You'd be stoned to death for such a crime today. When I was five, it wasn't a big deal. The teachers would lead us in an orderly fashion to the street light, make sure the walk sign was a go and let us loose upon the neighborhood. My house was only a half block away and the world was a different place then. Sometimes my Mom would meet me on the other side of the one street we had to cross (with our teacher's help) but if she wasn't there, I'd stroll home with no greater thought in my head than penny candy fish. There was a five and dime store on the corner on the way home. They sold the usual licorice whips, squirrel nut zippers and Swedish fish along with other silly Woolworth-like merchandise.

I remember one day in particular as I approached my house, Mom appeared in the window telling me to hurry up because we were going to the beach. She'd pack a small lunch of bologna and cheese sandwiches and Kool-Aid and we'd walk to Malibu beach in Dorchester. While my Mom soaked up the sun with the help of a bottle of baby oil, I'd frolic in the sand and surf with the rainbow splashed Boston Gas tank and it's plainer white sister in the background. I'd catch small crustaceans, try unsuccessfully to catch minnows and do my best to avoid the moon jelly fish that, depending on the tide, would sometimes outnumber the beach goers.

I miss the sea. Granted, Dorchester Bay is no beauty but I miss the smell and the sound of the ocean all the same. I used to wake to the cry of gulls and the roar of airplanes overhead not to mention the snoring coming from my brother's room. When I visit my Mom now, the house and neighborhood is like a faded picture. The hole in the fence I used to walk through at night with a flash light and bread in hand is now bound up tight with wire and chain. I wonder if anyone goes out to the water anymore. If anyone feeds the minnows and hermit crabs with quiet joy. Reveling in the simple exploration of a tidepool. Do they go back in and tell their Father about the transparent shrimp they saw floating by? It's body ghostly....like a distant memory.