Category: Project 52

Two weeks ago, on my 52nd birthday, I decided to start Project 52: Each week for 52 weeks, I’m going to post a reflection on one year of my life.

It’s fun for me, because though as we live life, the years get shorter (since we have only our own life to compare time with) — it will be fun to lay it all out with each year getting equal time.

Now, I’m guessing as to when these pictures were taken. The date may be on them — but I copied them years ago and don’t have the originals. When I visit my parents in a month, I hope to find some more pictures. But I will choose the ones that look about right for that year.

(This picture confirms my belief that I always loved dollies (and babies)! Though perhaps I didn’t always take the best care of them.)

This week, I’m looking at my third year of life — when I was two years old, from June 1966 to June 1967.

That was the year we moved from the house in Seattle to the house in Kent — the first place I remember living. I have no way of dating most of those memories, so I can assume most of them were from a bit later.

But I swear I have a memory of the house in Seattle. What I remember matches what has been said about it. My Dad says they moved out of that house around June 1966 — before my brother Ricky started Kindergarten in September in Kent. (Ricky was going to be 5 years old in October, and they got him in early, because he could already read.)

Anyway, in my memory we were in front of a house with lots and lots of steps. We were moving away, but I went back inside to use the potty. (If I was actually being potty trained, I’m sure such a thing would have happened as the last thing before we left!) I remember all the rooms being empty and it all being very strange to me and being hurried in and out of the house and carried out to the car.

It may not be true — but I suspect it is. I don’t remember any sadness about moving, just some bewilderment and Mommy making it all seem rather momentous. There was no fear or wondering about the future. It’s a very living-in-the-moment memory. But I pieced together down the road that I really did have a memory of “the house in Seattle with lots of stairs.”

This picture is possibly from later, but that year I was two, Becky was three, and Ricky was four, going on five.

The house in Kent was also the first address I memorized (much later) — “one-one-three-one Seattle Street in Kent.” I believe the strong emphasis on in Kent was to clear up any confusion about living on Seattle Street.

It was a two-story house with a basement as well. Becky and I shared a big room upstairs. We had matching white dressers and bookcases and desks. (And you know what? I still have one of the bookcases!) Our bedroom window looked down into the side yard.

We had a big picture window in the living room, that reportedly had a view. I don’t remember much about that. Maybe because I was too short to enjoy it? There was a yellow kitchen. In the basement there was a ping-pong table where once or twice I saw my Mom and Dad play ping-pong. (Wow. That’s an old memory. I don’t think my Mom played ping-pong any in later years.)

We had an enormous (to me) green lawn in the front, a garage in the back with an attic, and a fenced yard in the back as well. Seattle Street came up a hill and around a bend right in front of our house (which is why we had a view). There was an alley in front of our front yard and blackberry bushes across the alley. If I ever went near the blackberry bushes (in later years), I got scratched to pieces by the thorns.

And now I’m definitely getting into later memories. Next year: My sister Wendy is born! My years as the spoiled youngest child (Yeah right, Rick!) were coming to an end.

I’m 52 today!

As a Numbers Person, I think 52 is very cool — we use it a lot in probability, because it’s the number of cards in a standard deck. So I played some solitaire with my souvenir playing cards from Ireland and Britain and Germany.

But I’ve decided to start on a project. There are 52 weeks in a year, and I just finished 52 years of life.

I thought it would be fun, each week in the next year, to reflect on one year of my life.

So tonight, on my birthday, I’m going to talk about my first year.

I was born on Flag Day in Washington, D.C. My family lived in Maryland, in what is now Columbia, was then called Ellicott City. My Mom was 23 and my Dad was 25. So young! Yet they already had two kids, Ricky, who was not yet 3 years old, and Becky, who was 15 months old.

My parents met in Seattle, attending Seattle Pacific College, and only lived in Maryland a few years, long enough for Becky and me to be born. It’s kind of funny that I ended up living out here as an adult. I didn’t remember the East Coast at all from babyhood, of course.

I checked with my Dad, and they moved away from Maryland after I was a year old. So that first year was on the East Coast. I found out tonight that they did some sight-seeing when they found out they wouldn’t be staying — so I have been to places like Skyline Drive and Monticello, even though I didn’t remember.

My Dad worked at Johns Hopkins Jet Propulsion Lab, and my Mom was a stay-at-home Mom, who always did think it was a terrible thing for women to work.

She told me a story about when I was very small.

She was quite overwhelmed with 3 kids under 3, and had been asking God Why she had to have all these kids (sort of a George Bailey “It’s a Wonderful Life” moment.) The next day, I fell down the basement steps in my walker and cried for a solid hour. She held me and said, “God, I didn’t mean it! I didn’t mean it!”

I think she told me that story to let me know I was loved and wanted. (I’m not sure if it completely had that effect, but I appreciate the intention!)

I also want to reflect in these posts about how God had his hand on me. My parents met at a Christian college. I was born on a Sunday, the day after my Mom had spent the day at a church picnic. (I was the only one of my Mom’s kids born on my due date.) They both love the Lord and brought us to church every Sunday morning and evening, and often Wednesday nights as well. So my first grace came by the family I was born into — they introduced me to Jesus.

I don’t know how old I was in this picture, but it looks like somewhere around a year old.

I was ready for a wonderful life!