Amazingly, I can vividly remember the Christmas when I was five years old.

When I think of Thanksgiving memories, much has changed in Birmingham. One year my Uncle Glen came home from his work in Mexico City with the American embassy with his little dog and a Mexican friend.

When I was a girl my dad would put my brother Tucker and I on the bus to go visit our grandparents in West Blocton. The western town apparently eclipsed the orignal Blocton, that disappeared. It is a mystery how you can be west of nothing.

In 1935, we never heard of the Great Depression. What we did know is that we had no money, so most of our entertainment was free.

Here is a philosophical question for you: How can something with no real beginning ever end?

When I was growing up my dad had a friend barely half his age who lived all the way on the other side of town. Laney moved down to Birmingham from Jasper when he was about twenty and still single for opportunities building houses.

A few weeks ago in a story about the special class at Elyton School, I mentioned a Civil War sword sticking out of a tree we used to watch for every time we drove down Third Avenue. It was part of a sad sweet story of love unfulfilled.

One of my first memories of my dad was at Lock 17. Judging by the number there must be many locks on the Black Warrior River, but this one seems special.

Could it have been that much fun, riding a dusty, hot, bumpy bus? Well that was the way to get to West Blocton, out in the country outside Birmingham when gas was rationed and Greyhound buses were not air-conditioned. I was happy and excited, despite the hot ride, and enjoying myself.

One day when I was in the fourth grade, I had been catching butterflies in the front yard when my mother called me onto the awning-covered porch of our house in Bush Hills.