Sometimes what I remember about being a small child and what family/people have told me over time all runs together.

We lived in a house in Flint, Michigan until I was six. I remember playing in our basement a lot when I was a kid. Dressing Barbie under the bar, some film strip machine under the pool table, and playing three records over and over and singing along. Steve Lawrence: Go Away Little Girl, Nancy Sinatra: These Boots Were Made for Walking and I can’t remember what the third one was.

I’ve been told that after my father came home and found out She’d used her tranquilizers on me She started locking me in the basement instead. I remember the kitchen sink windowsill in the corner being stocked with pill bottles.

Even smaller I remember my bedroom door was cut in half and I was on the inside. I remember one day emptying my toy box and pushing it over to the door so I could stand on it and climb over. I remember the triumphant feeling of accomplishment, but I don’t remember anything after. Did I actually get out? I have a vivid memory of the color and smell of that toy box. Was I always shut in my room or was that a single memory?

My father tells me that he put up the chain-link fence in our backyard to keep me in, but I’d already learned to climb over it before he finished the job.  Did I just love to climb or did I feel I needed to escape from something?

I do remember sometimes playing with a neighbor girl. I remember the old black lady up the street that used to give kids popsicles and pennies to pull weeds in her flower garden. I remember watching out the front window as my older sister went door-to-door in the snow to deliver Girl Scout cookies, but I have no other specific memory of my sister until  I was much older. She’s five years older than me so I’m not surprised we didn’t spend time together.

Wait, I do have one more memory of her. One night we were sleeping together (it must have been some holiday and maybe we had guests – I don’t think we shared a bed regularly) and she’d snuck a piece of hard candy to bed. I remember the crinkle of the wrapper and her smirk that she had one and I didn’t. Then she spitefully clicked the candy around on her teeth so I could hear it. Annnnd then she choked on it. Seriously choked. I remember a split second of thinking she deserved it before I chickened out and yelled for my Dad. I don’t remember what happened after that, but she’s still around to hate me so she lived through it.

I remember freaking out late one night fter catching a glimpse of my dad as he walked naked to the bathroom.

I remember the layout of that house, I even remember the address: 1222 W. Coldwater Rd. I have a vague memory of kindergarten and walking to and from school.

The rest is stuff people have told me and of old black and white home movies of holidays.

How much do you remember of life before you started school?