Andy was my friend

When I was a little girl, very little, I had a friend named Andy.

Andy lived two doors down and I am told we were inseparable.

Andy and I would eat breakfast together almost every morning. We would both sit in the same kitchen chair, our little bottoms check to check and share the same plate. All very sterile you see. If the beacon was gone by the time Andy arrived, my father, my grump of a father (but I’m guessing the grump part must have appeared later in life) would get up and prepare some more for him. Then we would go outside and play and play and play. We played hard for children still drinking out of sippy cups, yes we did.

My absolute very first memory included Andy.

I was at Andy’s front door. It starts with the door opening (now mind you this memory is at the eye level of a less than three year old child – I don’t really know my exact age at this time, but we moved from that house pretty close after my sister was born and she was born a month and a half after I had turned three – now back to the story), his mother says ” Diedre come on in. Andy is just getting up from his nap.” I turn right to go down the hall and walk into his room. He is climbing out of his crib (I was still probably sleeping in a crib at the time too, because that didn’t strike me as unusual – parents back then like to keep us caged up for as long as possible) and I thought to myself that it was very odd he was still wearing diapers. I mean diapers, come on, those are so yesterday. But before Andy’s little feet could hit the carpeting I heard my mothers voice at the front door and the panic ran all the way down my spine. HIDE ME was the main thought. QUICK I GOTTA HIDE. My arms flew out at my sides, my little body spun around to help me look for a hiding place. The closet, yeah the closet. No not the closet, too full of stuff. I knew that I was in trouble and started scrambling for an exit. That is the end of my very first memory.

Why the panic and the trouble you might be asking? You see I was supposed to be taking my nap. I had snuck secretly out of my bedroom, down my hall, opened the front door quietly and closed it back shut, all to escape the hell that was called nap time. I was bad like that.

One story my mother likes to tell is of a neighbor 7 houses down calling to inform her that her young daughter is heading toward Center Street on her Tyke Bike. I could hull ass on that Tyke Bike, yeah, I was that fast. I also wasn’t allowed past Andy’s house or across the street for that matter and Center Street was called Center Street for a reason, major road through town, very busy street with lots of cars. But I was gonna see the world, Baby. Nothing was gonna keep me down. There were things to do and people to see and I was going to hit it hard. Blow this Popsicle joint and head for the open road. Yeah, that was me a very, very long time ago. When dreams still could come true.