A new neighborhood

The first time I can remember being alive was when I was perhaps six years old. I have no active recollection prior to that time, probably because it was all boring and not worth remembering anyway.

The neighborhood we moved into when I was that young was a new one. I remember that because ours was the only house for as far as I could see, which actually wasn't far because I was so small and there was a lot of foliage close by taller than I was. But, living in such a neighborhood gave me a lot of opportunity for advancement to, like, age seven.

I remember I had a real interest in watching the houses being built in the neighborhood. I would stand around watching the carpenters at work, thinking how luck they were to be able to take that hammer and pound those nails. No nail guns in those days!

I liked the way the house went up; the cement block and brick foundations, the 2x6 boards they laid on top of the foundation walls; then came the support beams, the flooring, the walls... I was always amazed how all these pieces fit together to make a house.

One day, one of the carpenters asked if I wanted to pound some nails into the floor they were laying. Needless to say, I absolutely did! I don't know how long I was up there, or how many nails I pounded, but I do know I never hit my thumb once. That, I would have remembered.

It was quite a thrill later on to look across the street from where I lived and think I helped build that house. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on one's likes and dislikes, I lost my desire to build things, at least with a hammer. As an adult, I like to watch, and admire, but not participate.