Hello everyone! This is so new to me, exciting and somewhat overwhelming; but thanks to my daughter, Dina Rose McQueen—my wonderful editor—I am dipping my toes into the 21st Century. Whoo Hoo!
Since this is a Memoir Journal, I’ll relate to you my very first memory! I lived on the second floor of a three-story apartment building. I think I could not have been more than three or four years old. The front door of our apartment opened close to the stairway. One afternoon I was alone in the apartment with our housekeeper, my parents being at work. They had not yet divorced and my father was at his studio painting, my mother working as a social worker at the Jewish Children’ Bureau. This was in Chicago. I remember the apartment was quiet. Our dog, a Scottish terrier who didn’t like me, was asleep under the piano that was near the front door. He was waiting for my mother to return home. When I would get down on my hands and knees to look at him close to his face, he would growl at me. Never bit me though.
Well to get my to my first memory, as Chummy the Scotch terrier was an on going memory—I even had to take him out to do his “business” when I got old enough, which was probably around five or six—Chummy would run off and I would have to chase after him down the street. Life was very different in the l930’s; kids could go out by themselves and no one worried.
Well, to get back to my very first memory—again—I opened the front door of our apartment, looked out at the stairway and the hallway—very dim light—and said to myself: From this time on I am going to remember! And that is my first memory!
Be safe … be well … be happy.