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  • I remember dreaming that there was a pit in the yard, deep and dark, with monsters inside, and Laddie was barking to frighten them away. I think it was my first dream.

    I remember dreaming that three skeletons of American Indians slept on the old log beside the barnyard, and as I watched them in the darkness, they got up and began speaking to me.

    I remember Dad holding me in his arms on a balmy summer night as we said good night to my aunt, uncle, and cousins. My aunt told me I was so cute she wanted to take me with her. I turned my head into Dad's shoulder, worried that he would let me go.

    I remember the stuffed black cat one of Mom's friends got for me right after my grandmother died. It was soft and warm, but I never gave it a name. I still have it, though I don't understand why.

    I remember Mom patting talcum powder on my rump as I lay on my parents' bed. I remember white -- the chenille bedspread, the lightweight curtains, the white diaper.

    I remember Mom playing "this little piggy went to market" on my toes after she diapered me. I remember asking for it again and again and again.

    I remember listening at the old heat vent to the grownups after we'd been sent to bed, and them saying, "Are you kids asleep?" (To which we always chorused, "Yes!")

    I remember waking up in my bunk bed and knowing by the light coming in the window that it had snowed overnight.

    I remember the alphabet and numbers that Mom had painted around the ceiling of the bedroom my brother and I shared when we were little -- and how I still think that the alphabet turns the corner at F and again at W.

    I remember jumping on my aunt and uncle's bed with my cousins and my brother. "Are you kids jumping on the bed?" the grownups would call. "No," we'd shout back ... until one night we broke the slats and hit the floor with a thud. We scattered. "Did you kids break that bed?" the grownups yelled.

    They thought we were going to answer that?
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