Let me say from the outset that I am not one of those people who think they remember their own birth. I may have a few delusions of my own, but luckily, the belief that I remember fighting my way out of the womb and through the birth canal is not one of them.

I do, however, recall my mother’s story of that fateful day when I — all eight pounds and nine ounces of me — made my debut appearance . . . and in rather dramatic fashion.

Apparently, I was born with an extra impatience gene, if there is such a thing. Because my mother — a petite woman who never weighed more than 99 pounds soaking wet, except when pregnant — barely made it to the hospital in time. No labor pains, no time for prep; just a lot of amniotic fluid, a slight backache, five minutes in the delivery room, and there I was: screaming mad, arms and legs flailing, and probably wondering when they were going to bring my dinner.

I have some old family pictures in which I appear, around age two or three, as a rather cute, blonde, serious-looking toddler being posed for photo ops on special occasions. Other than that, any history from those earliest years is strictly anecdotal, passed down by various relatives and undoubtedly edited along the way. But my own memory kicks in around age three, when my older sister Merna decided it was time for me to begin my education.

Specifically, she taught me to read, write, and do simple arithmetic, so that I became my mother’s favorite parlor trick. Whenever we had guests, she would drag out the daily newspaper or a magazine, have someone choose a random article, and make me read it to them. Luckily, Barnum & Bailey never brought their circus to our small town, or I’m sure she would have tried to sign me up as one of their sideshow “freak” acts.

I remember skipping a couple of grades in school because of the head start my sister had given me, so that I was all of six years old when I started third grade. By that time, Merna was in junior high school, and no longer available to walk with me to and from my elementary school. So of course, my mother was ready to assume the task — but I was having none of it. I knew the way from the previous school year; I was a big third-grader; and I was quite capable of looking after myself, thank you very much.

So at the ripe old age of six, I took off that first morning in September: up Rathbun Street past St. Louis Catholic Church and School, across both streets at the intersection of Rathbun and Privilege Streets, along Privilege to Social Street, then left another half block to Pothier Elementary School, Woonsocket, Rhode Island . . . a substantial distance for a wee lass such as myself. And in the afternoon, when I reversed course, I could see my mother — who had doubtless been frantic for the entire day — waiting outside our house, watching for me to pop into sight.

(Full disclosure: We had no cell phones or GPS trackers in those days; but the principal of my school was one of my mother’s best friends, and I’m quite sure there was at least one phone call to let her know I had arrived safely in the morning.)

Today, allowing a six-year-old to do that on her own would be cause for Social Services to launch an investigation. But those really were kinder, gentler times. And it wasn’t New York City or Detroit; it was small-town New England in the 1940s. I was — in my own mind, at least — independent, smart, and quite certain that I was invulnerable. I’m convinced now that it was that experience, all those decades ago, that prepared me for my world travels in later years.

*. *. *

Most often it’s the major events that we think of as life-altering: our choices of study and career, marriage (or not), being in the right place at the right time . . . like Forrest Gump discovering that he was one hell of a ping-pong player.

But in reality, it’s frequently the smaller things that shape our character and influence the decisions we make later in life . . . little things like striking out on my own at six years of age, and learning to read at three so that I skipped a couple of grades and graduated early.

And I will get into more of those little things later, as soon as I dredge them up from memory.

In the meantime, it’s the weekend. Enjoy.

And don’t forget to set your clocks back tonight!

Just sayin’ . . .

Brendochka
11/1/25