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.”