In Spring, 1982.

DIARY

Oddly enough, I excluded 1982 from my list of particular intense years. It was. In away this is like identifying the activity of certain mesolithic "civilizations" as being intense... it's the amount of relative activity that makes the statement. I remember more from the age of four than three or five by leaps and bounds, and six barely competes. I wasn't one of those obviously prodigal kids (like my wife) who can read at two and talk about the "struggle" of the proletariat at three. I was a little bit more slow early on. I wasn't stupid; but I was serious and intense and penetrating. I was one of those babies who stares at something for a long time, which would've been disquieting if I didn't smile so much.

So what should be the first epic of the year "four"? Necessity means this must be a short entry, so I'll have to do something simple.

I went to nursery school this year. There were three moms at Woodside Church nursery school that watched the kids at three schools. At the end of the year I'd earned the distinction as the sole kid with a mom all to himself. That's right; the other moms each divided their attentions between all the other dozen (?) plus kids there. I had one all to myself. This was because I had a knack, whenever someone's back was turned, of simply leaving.

Before all this had gone down, I enjoyed more freedom. It wasn't that I didn't like Woodside church. The room to the north was dull enough but the room to the south had shaving cream and buckets and pails and building blocks and a plastic play structure with a slide. If I could smuggle away from these parts, there was an antechamber all walled in with class, and this fascinated me. And then there were carpeted halls where you could stamp your foot as hard as you tried, but barely make a sound. They were long and wide, with stained-glass windows throwing zigzag patterns down and it was fun to run up and down them at a full careen. Bathrooms to explore. Stairways to explore.

Eventually I got bored with all this. I was able to open the doors to the antechamber, and then I was in the back parking lot behind the church. A small tree grew off to one side, and I practised climbing that until a mom inevitably came out and dragged me back inside. When that got dull, the parking lot was filled with all sorts of wonders; trees that were bigger than those in my yard... Oaks! And pebbles on the ground. And little chasms between the bars at the side of the parking lots and the church it self... chasms that fell two or three feet to windows that looked into the basement. I explored those as well.

And once, when I was particularly successful at not getting caught, I left the church entirely. I don't remember exactly where I went; presumably off into the neighborhood. A old man working in his yard apprehended me and brought me back. Everybody was shocked and appalled. My parents tell the story to this day.

I invite them to correct any mistakes I've made.

END OF POST.