Eight

In the middle of third grade
we moved out of Michigan again
though we'd always be back for visits.
I'd never forget Mom's parents'
Sigsbee St. house with narrow driveway
between two tall trees and park-like yard
with cherry tree I may have climbed once.
Inside was the fireplace and big chair
where Grandpa told made-up stories
featuring a mischievous crow.

Neighbors fences bordered our yard
in Rochester: Taylor's on the right
who had the twins Dean and Dale, Billy's age;
flower garden people on the left
and swimming pool in the yard behind.
Near that back fence I recall losing 
track of time, building sand towns.

Mid-childhood school and church memories blur.
One home highlight was the radio
show "Greatest Story Ever Told:
Greatest Life Ever Lived" starring Jesus
which we heard on Sundays while eating
melted cheese or brown sugar toast
from trays in the living room.

Eight-year olds I identified with
in books, among family and at church
were more often boys than girls.
Once I told Nancy I was a boy--
was I explaining my low voice
or lack of interest in dolls?
Forgive me, sisters, daughters, nieces,
for slighting your eight-year old passions.
Thanks Mom for labeling photos 
reviving third grade eyes and minds.

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