Anne

I believe my earliest memory is of the house we lived in between the times I was 6 months and 2 years old. It was a sprawling farmhouse in Kansas, in a town settled by Germans, Russians, Italians and Gypsies.  I remember the wood floors where my footsteps would echo. Sometimes I'd press my ears to the floor, listening for people's voices and footsteps. I could smell Mama's cooking from my upstairs nursery bedroom.  I remember the broad, old-fashioned winding staircase. I played in a spare parlour room, for which we had no furniture, so that everything I did, my laugh, my shout, anything, would echo. My big brother made a little playhouse in the broomcloset beneath the staircase.  I wanted to close the door, because for some reason, my 1-year-old primness declaired it was proper to be closed. But if it was closed we would have suffocated; so he drew pictures for windows, and we installed a light. I had my own little play stove in there, which Daddy made for me, with painted burners--none of this new-fangled plastic kitchenware for children that looks tattered in no time. He made it from scrapwood, along with a box for a table, a crate for a shelf, and a few other items to store my make-believe home-making tools. Mommy lent me her measuring cups and a small saucepan and spoon. I believe I also had a small tea set. My brother helped me set up my dolls around the table, and we fed them; the problem was, he made them cry all at once, and I became so overwhelmed I threw them all up in the air and ran out of the room.