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You are here: Home / Archives for early childhood

My Favorite Toy

September 23, 2015 By Scott "Q" Marcus

My parents told me they gave him to me as a Christmas present in 1955, in Detroit, Michigan in a two-story flat on Dexter Avenue.

Puppy

I’ve seen the grainy 8MM movies, but of course, I don’t remember. After all, I was barely a year old, hardly old enough to know what was a “best friend,” let alone that he would be it.

At night, I’d hold him until I fell asleep; his very presence banishing monsters that lived under the bed and the shadow creatures in the closet. When wind against the windows caused the curtains to pulsate and the panes to howl a ghostly, eerie, wail, my little yellow buddy with the dark black eyes and furry body watched over me until the sandman cast his magic upon me. He shared my pillow, his yellow, foam, and fur body with plastic face peering over the blankets to protect me, long after I dozed.

I would drag him from Kevin’s to Joey’s to Victor’s during long vacations and hot muggy afternoons. He’d sit, floppy-necked, across from me on the kitchen table as I’d sip lemonade and draw with crayons. While I did homework, he rested, never complaining, near my pencil jar. And when no one was to be found and there was nothing to do but let my imagination take over, I covered him in aluminum foil, wrapped saran wrap around his head, suspended him from the ceiling light, and pretended he was an astronaut.

“Commander Puppy,” I said into my paper-cup microphone (adding the right amount of voice crackle to increase the realism), “This is Captain Scott. Over. Do you hear me? Over. Come in Commander. Over and out.”

Together, we spent hours; daylight until dark. January through December. Childhood through adolescence.

[Read more…]

Filed Under: Baby Boomers, family, Happiness, Newspaper Column, Personal, Tribute Tagged With: aging, early childhood, inner child, memories

Not What We Remembered

October 3, 2012 By Scott "Q" Marcus

I was born in Detroit, Michigan.

When I was seven years old, in 1962, my parents moved to California. (It seemed appropriate for me to go with them.)

Recently, I was speaking in the Great Lake State and had a few spare days, and the assistance of my cousin Steve, who still lives there; so I wanted to revisit my first elementary school and the last house I remember from early childhood. We clambered into his green panel van and headed to Livonia, a suburb.

As an important aside, I provide a cautionary note.

While Steve slowly drove by Botsford Elementary, giving me plenty of viewing time to prompt old memories, the staff began studying us through the school’s windows. Realizing this was no longer 50 years ago; it dawned on me that two middle-aged men driving sluggishly around an elementary school in a panel van could be misinterpreted.

We moved on.

Of course, any vehicle listlessly rolling down a street with its residents studying every house will attract attention anywhere; so as we passed “my” house, the resident studied us from his front porch. Not desirous of another misinterpretation, I approached the young man and reached out to shake his hand.

“Hi, my name’s Scott. I lived here from 1958 through 1962. I’m visiting from California and I wanted to see where I was little. Would it be okay if I looked around?”

“Wow! I wasn’t even born then! Sure. Feel free.”

Emboldened, I took it another step.

“Would it be too much to ask if I could go inside?”

“I’m a trusting guy,” he replied, “Come in.”

As I understand it, we remember every single event that ever happened to us.

[Read more…]

Filed Under: Baby Boomers, Beliefs, Newspaper Column, Self Talk, Traditions Tagged With: detroit michigan, early childhood, family, memory, old memories, parents, subconscious memory

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