More Memories
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I have other memories from those younger years, moments that stay with me just as clearly.
There was the pet iguana we had. My sister and I loved it.
One day, while passing it back and forth, we didn’t take turns gently. In the struggle, something went wrong.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand what had happened. But as I got older and learned the truth, I realized the weight of that moment—and I’ve carried it with me ever since.
We also had a flying squirrel at one point. Our dog, Buster the boxer, caught it, but one survived, and we took it in. I remember caring for it, hoping it would become mine to love. One day, I let it out, thinking it would magically find its way back into my room to curl up with me. Instead, it went into Anna and Richard’s room, lying right on her pillow. That was the end of it. My biological mother didn’t allow it to stay. She told us to say goodbye to it, and just like that, it was gone.
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Buster was always by my side during those years, especially when I was outside. One day, I went alone to the chick coop, thinking I could handle it by myself. I opened the door, wanting nothing more than to hold the baby chicks. But when they tried to escape, chaos broke loose. Buster went after them, and I couldn’t stop him. I couldn’t overpower the dog to stop it, and what happened next stayed with me—the aftermath, the chaos, the feeling that I had caused it. Ran home to my bedroom and cried on my bed. All I could do was cry and blame myself. The ripple effect I felt responsible for. I cried and begged Anna and Richard not to blame him. It was my fault. They gave me a firm talking-to, but that didn’t erase the guilt. I saw in their eyes how they felt — the situation and — Buster. Not long after, Buster was gone. One day he was there, the next he wasn’t. I asked what happened, but never got an answer. I had to learn to live with that, carrying love and loss together.
But even with the hard lessons, the seasons brought their own kind of wonder. I loved the change of seasons, each with its distinct characteristics: spring with its flowers, summer with the fun of water — the beach and swimming! — fall with the beautiful leaves, and winter with the cold and snow. In the fall, we’d rake leaves into piles and jump in, ending up with leaves and even sand in our hair. In the winter, we’d throw snowballs, go sledding, or hook a sled to the back of the golf cart and ride across the yard. At our grandparents’ house on Anna’s side, we even sled down the stairs into the yard, laughing the whole way.
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I was always trying risky things, not really knowing the danger. One winter, I wandered into the woods—ignoring the old man’s warnings—and found a frozen pond. I thought it would be amazing to slide across the ice, as I did in socks on the kitchen floor. I told myself, Nothing can go wrong. I carefully put one foot down and—whoosh!—my foot went straight through the ice. That was my “oh shit” moment. I ran home, peeled off my wet sock and shoe, warmed up my foot, and then went right back outside to throw snow at my sister or help make homemade snow cream.
These are the memories that shaped me—the joy, the mistakes, the danger, and the laughter. They sit side by side, teaching me even now that childhood was never just one thing. It was all of it, tangled together, and it was mine.