Potluck—July 20, 1969, 10: 50 p.m. CDT.

It was the summer before I turned three. We lived in a white house. The fence hadn't gone up around the yard yet, so we could cross over to our friendly neighbors behind our house. They had kids our age and we loved to play with them. Our parents would get together for cookouts and potlucks.

On this night we were playing until dark while our parents gathered around the television for some important event. We had already had the potluck. There were hotdogs, and ham slices with pineapple, yellow potato salad, and something they called a salad; white and fluffy, with fruit and little soft marshmallows. Someone had brought a cheese ball rolled in nuts, surrounded by crackers. And there was Velveeta—thick orange blocks of it, the kind we never got at our house. Watermelon. Brownies, strawberries, and grapes with seeds. Yuck. Cookies that at least two of the moms had made, and a sheet cake with that very white frosting.

Then we had all gone outside to play. Now I was getting very tired. It was very late, very, very late. Later than I had ever stayed up. My body was getting tired, but there was too much fun to be had and too many friends to play with. My mother called us in to our neighbor's house and I was very sad to stop playing, but she insisted we come.

10:56 p.m. The adults were gathered around the television, looking at its black-and-white image, and the children were crowding in, pushing their way to their families. It was really hard to see, so my mother picked me up in her arms. I could see the black-and-white TV. And I could see what looked like a spaceman, with a big white space suit and a giant bubble with a visor in the front, just like the ones in cartoons. My mother whispered to me, "Look. Watch. This is the first time ever a man has walked on the moon." I looked back with more curiosity than ever. But the man was moving so slowly, walking and standing. It was no longer exciting, so I laid my head down on my mother's shoulder and fell asleep.

The Abandoned House

Past the open field, there was an abandoned house, beside the gravel road. Beyond that was the road, and then the cow pasture.  In those days no one locked up or boarded abandoned buildings, so the house was just open—empty and damaged, with not even a set of stairs in the stairwell. It did have a coal chute and we could ride it—a very steep slide—down into the basement. It was impossible to climb back up, slick and metal as it was. The basement was filled with sunlight, dust, debris, leftover household goods, and old toys. I would go there with my sister. I believe she went down there trying to lose me, but I followed her down, repeatedly.

Among the toys was a rocking horse. It wasn't in good condition and had some broken parts, but it was ridable, if you were careful. If you weren’t, it would throw you off. I rather liked it that way—a little more exciting than your average rocker-horse.

The only way out was to climb the wooden slat walls and pull yourself through the stairwell hole. I managed it, but it was hard. I felt that I might not make it out at times. That made me even more determined. I was also not entirely certain that if I hadn't made it out, my sister would have gone for help.

For years I dreamt about climbing walls in buildings, riding chutes, going down into dark parts of structures. The same dream, over and over. Finally, at a family gathering as an adult, I mentioned it, and my sister said flatly: that wasn't a dream. We actually played in that house. What I still can't believe is that a four-year-old was allowed to play in an abandoned building.