First Memories

As a first and second-grader, memories are sporadic but they do exist

My parents purchased their first home less than a year after returning from their California adventure (which ended with a 6.6 earthquake!) for $19,500, taking on a hefty $79/month mortgage payment. We only lived there four or so years before the family moved out-of-state again, but it is in this home that I have my earliest memories.

746 E Magnolia Avenue, St. Paul, Minnesota. Photo via Zillow.

The home was located in East St. Paul, Minnesota. My mom had grown up in the area and we had lots of family close by. The address was 746 E Magnolia Avenue and at only 947 square feet, it was cozy. Getting to my bedroom, which I shared with my sister, required going through what seemed like the closet in my parent's bedroom and up some stairs to an open space (a finished attic) that had a small window in front and back as well as a walk-in closet. The ceilings must have been low because our dad would bump his head on his way up to tuck us in at night. But to us, as kids, the space was huge. The closet itself felt very generous. We had a laundry hamper that was white and looked like wicker (maybe it was) and had a white wooden lid. I would pull up a child-size chair behind it, using it as a desk. I, now 5-6 years old, was the librarian and my sister, by this time 3-4 years old, would come to "check out" books. I would use something heavy to pretend to stamp the checkout slips of paper we tucked into each book. We had many Dr. Seuss books and all needed to be checked out before they could be read. Playing "library" in the closet was a regular activity. I was always the librarian and Jeni was always the patron, much to her frustration.

As it turned out, the very first job I ever wanted was when I was about seven years old ... and it was a librarian. There was a beautiful library within walking distance of our home and I was allowed to walk the few blocks to get there and back. I couldn't tell time yet - and probably couldn't read more than a simple chapter book but it was a place I felt comfortable and enjoyed being. 

While living in this house, I became friends with the girl that lived just a few houses away and across the street. Her name was Julie. Our parents had gone to school together. Julie and I were born only four days apart and quickly became inseparable. We walked to school together. We ran through sprinklers to beat the heat of summer and we’d lay in the grass, sucking on popsicles while looking at the clouds in the sky. Our families attended the same church and so we made our First Communion together. As most friendships do, ours has ebbed and flowed, but Julie has been a constant friend in my life from these early years up until even today.

Lifelong friends celebrating a birthday together where we received matching lockets as gifts from our parents.

Receiving our First Communion together, along with neighborhood friend Mark Coocherella.

Towards the end of my families time at this house I have a very visceral memory: I recall wearing long pants and a faded red sweatshirt and splaying myself out on the sidewalk in front of our home, absorbing the warmth in the cement from the hot summer sun. I was cold, despite the summer sun and the warm clothes. A day or two later I was diagnosed with chicken pox. And a week or so after that - covered in calamine lotion and still contagious - our family was on the road, moving to Kansas from the only home I knew. For fear of spreading the disease, I couldn’t say goodbye to my best friend in the whole world.

We had to wave from across the street. I remember feeling very sad. About a week later she came down with the Pox anyway.

My mom told me that I was worried about what language they spoke in Kansas and if we’d get to meet Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz. 

I would be starting 3rd grade in a new place with no friends and a chicken pox scar directly in the middle of my forehead — I was eight years old.