I was chatting with other guests at a cocktail party on Sunday about the things one remembers from childhood. One of the participants in the conversation, Sylvia, theorized (paraphrasing) that youngsters have relatively little to remember so things become imprinted to a degree that is out of proportion to their actual importance.
For whatever reason, I vividly recall this yellow bathroom in the house we lived in North Chicago, Illinois. We lived there from the time I was a toddler until I finished kindergarten.
Why do all my ‘little kid’ photos have the same open-mouthed, dimwitted stare?
Don’t answer that! It’s slowly dawning on me.