My sister and I spent many of our Thanksgivings with Patricia’s family in a light purple flat deep in San Francisco’s Richmond district.
Ramblings while on a slow suburban death.
Tag: #childhood
While I was a prolific letter writer during my teenage years, my choices of pen pals were not always wise. Of course, it took a while to dispense of my one prison pen pal, but I finally managed to confine my correspondence to one nice German girl who sent me wonderful photos of her home in Bavaria and from vacations to Spain.
At some point after I began Kindergarten, there was a noticeable change in the behavior of my parents. Along with homework and my own awkwardness in social settings, I lost contact with both my mother or father.
There are very few childhood memories of my father, a man who was already rushing towards old age by the time I was born. At 50, he was already overweight, working the graveyard shift at the old Joseph Magnin department store in San Francisco. He was always asleep by the time I got home from school, and I was ready for bed by the time he was getting ready for work.