Memories of early childhood are sketchy for the first few years, which is not uncommon. I have a one distinct memory of being breastfed and another vague recollection of being bathed in the kitchen sink when I was about 18 months old. Other than that it is all a bit of a foggy patchwork of undated recollections until I was 4.
During those years I lived in the upstairs part of my parent's house. Downstairs was rented until the birth of my younger brother created a bit of a space problem. As I recall, the downstairs was rented to members of the family: my father's parents and later to a man my father called a brother but I have no idea how he was related to the family.
With very little knowledge to compare my living conditions to anyone else, I believe that my early years were spent in happy oblivion. I presume I must have been fed and watered on a daily basis. I have some recollection of using a potty and a rather indulgent partiality towards Farley's Rusks.
For a time, I perched myself on a flat rock, comparing my life with the Guyandotte River. Just as its tributaries replenish it daily, changing it in some small—sometimes great—degree, so have the day-to-day occurrences of life changed me. Like the ri
