She asked if I had 
an accomplished childhood.
I learned to tie my shoes,
ride a bike, play hop scotch,
scout out a game of sandlot 
baseball, climb a tree,
build a fort.

Raised near the ocean,
I learned early to feel
the pull of tide, 
strengths of waves,
and the dangers of jetties.

Lying on my bed, reading
a book in the middle of the 
day was stolen pleasure
with occasional consequences. 
Chores always came first, 
clean dishes, fresh laundry 
pinned on the clothesline,
 corn husked, beans shelled,
porch swept. 

I never minded school work
though once when I was
in 6th grade I received 
a low mark in initiative. 
I asked the nun to tell
what that meant so
I could improve.

A compliant middle child 
raised by parents with
a strong work ethic, 
I could memorize well -
spelling word, catechism, 
all the US capitol cities, 
and how to judge moods.

A latch key kid,
before neighborhood
locked front doors.
Both parents worked,
I rode the city bus,
and picked roadside 
black-eyed susans.


I felt sorry for the girl
with the birthmark and
the boy who never fit in,
though I don’t recall 
reaching out to those 
pushed to the edge. 
Compassion grows.


That girl nursed 
my father back to health 
when she became a woman,
and the fragile young man
committed suicide.

Looking back, I played
well, worked hard,  
readily obeyed, 
learned from mistakes 
how to find better paths 
to a more meaningful life.