I spent my childhood living in two houses simultaneously, without ever moving. Mom and Dad lived next door to my dad’s parents, Walter and Zola Walker Wright. In this slide, my grandma is wearing a kinda Bow Tie o’ the Day. ( I can’t tell for sure if the bow is attached to her dress or her apron.) If I wasn’t found in one house, I was likely to be found in the other. Or I was out in what felt to me like one bigly yard. The horse corral and the vegetable garden and the bee warehouse were out back behind the two houses. The whole spread was like my own private amusement park. I wrung the fun out of every inch of the buildings, machinery, and the land. I hated to take the time to sleep. My world, on that tiny portion of a block, seemed endlessly fascinating, and I couldn’t wait to get started exploring and playing every day. I was free, yet safe there. I was making my way through the world on my own. I was learning, hands-on. I would never feel that free, confident, or that safe again in my life.
Looking back, I realize I was very well supervised, though I felt completely independent at the time. I must have sensed somehow that I was safe and looked after. I do recall seeing Mom and Momo having impromptu chat sessions in the driveway between our houses. Many times, I would see them both turn to me as I arrived on the scene, and I would hear a duet of, “There you are!” in my direction. I am positive these little chats were more like a conference on the mound in baseball, where the two checked in with each other about my travels and then strategized about my care and supervision for the rest of the day.