I WAS ALONE IN THE HOUSE.
I was four.
Along one side of my small bedroom was a homemade bookshelf, made of concrete blocks and
two-by-fours. My stuffed animals sat inside, arranged by size. They had become my only friends.
Little me with my stringy blonde curls, dressed in hand-me-downs collected from various
charity organizations and garage sales. I hunkered down for my favorite time of the day, when Bill
Cosby’s “Picture Pages” came on in the middle of Captain Kangaroo, teaching basic math,
geometry and drawing. I would dance to the song and await the arrival of the lesson, complete
with silly characters like Mortimer Ichabod Marker. Oh, how I longed for my very own Mortimer
Ichabod Marker pen, perhaps as much as Ralphie from “A Christmas Story” longed for his Red
R rder B.B.