I thought it was blonde

Saying that I was going to write about memories of my childhood and actually doing it are two different things. I can't really explain the hesitation. Maybe because I don't write much here and I feel like a simple and short summation of my childhood would rob it of it's greatness. That seems rather grandiose. Maybe I'm having trouble pinpointing just what it is I want to say. Yes, I'll stick with that one.

I was born in Denver and lived in a house on Downing Street. I remember my pastel patchwork wallpaper in my room. I remember the big purple hippopotamus in the basement bathroom. I remember the long foam cushion that my brother and I would use to ride down the steps to the basement. Tupperware in the cabinet under the oven. Huge backyard with cherry trees and rhubarb plants. Red, white and blue eagle wallpaper in the living room. Large coniferous bushes along the path from the sidewalk to the front door. (Mom, was it Jeff or I that pushed the little berries up our nose? By the way, that is strangely similar to Boo sticking a rock up her nose in preschool.) Washing the car with Dad. Swimming in a kiddie pool out back. Our dog Lady. Pretending to be asleep in the fuzzy, orange bean bag while Mom and Rhetha talked. Playing school with Mom and Rhetha. My childhood friend from a few doors down named Cindy. Mom dressing as a clown one Halloween. Mom putting ice on my big fat lip. An Easter bunny cake with lots of coconut.

Hmmmm . . . do you think my bedroom wallpaper began my love of all things patchwork?

-dana