In this picture, I was 3 years old (give or take a little). As you can see, poor doesn't fully describe how hard life was. My earliest memories started when I was a few months from my second birthday. I can still see my next to the oldest brother, laying on the couch in the living room, throwing up into a container that my mother was holding. There were others there at the time, don't remember who, but they were there - there were voices; images of that time.  He died on October 1, 1946.  I remember my mother crying at Donald's grave. I come to understand why some pains in the heart can't be healed in this life time. That is my earliest memory that I can connect to a date. I may remember things earlier than that, but no date can be attached, so when it happened is unreliable.  My memory is filled with mental still pictures of things that I've seen. Things like the moon being caught in the apple tree, or my oldest brother doing school homework by a kerosene lamp or when my brother climbed into a hole in the sky when climbing up in a tree.  Hummm, the way a small child remembers seeing things.

I suppose this is one of the reasons that photography appeals so much to me. It mimics how I see things - still pictures of things that I've seen and experienced.  I think you'll see that as you view the galleries, where I load one picture each day.