“Shhh, cariad. There’s my darling. Be a good girl and go for Granny.”
I must have been in kindergarten – this is one of my earliest memories. I was elated, running home up the green hill toward the three pines. <
My poor mom thought she had to poo, so the nurse settled her overburdened pregnant body on the toilet and what do you know...there I was having my first look at what I thought was vast ocean and an
My earliest memory is an early fall afternoon in late 1984, in a green-and-white trimmed, 3-story home where I lived with my younger sister, two dogs, one pony, and my parents shortly before their
I was in a darkened room sitting up in my crib. The crib was in the corner, one side against the wall. I wore a white shirt and diapers.
No sound was in the room, only thinning darkness. The baby in a crib lay and watched the bare floor stretching out to an open door. Somewhere a curtain fluttered, a bar of light slid out along the
Murray Shapiro was the son of Jewish immigrants from the Ukraine who owned a grocery store in Flatbush, Brooklyn.
Without getting melodramatic, I will tell you about my earliest memories as a “writer.”
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