At age 9, I was the sole proprietor of a lemonade stand on North Avenue in Westport, CT. I wanted to look important, so I had with me a collection of National Geographics to read, lest anyone think I had nothing to do but await their business. One day, having nothing to do but await their business, I decided to paint a wristwatch on my wrist, thereby gaining even more stature. I’m right-handed but wrote and drew with my left hand, so onto my right wrist went the imaginary watch.
Years later, when my own children were growing, I wound up with a bumper crop of pumpkins in the big garden, more than we could possibly carve. So I set the kids up with a table at the end of Plumfield Lane, which they happily manned all that Saturday and earned some good money selling our extra pumpkins.
After setting them up, walking back down the lane, I turned around and childhood came sweeping over me in a silent symphony of love and pure joy. I could barely walk, seeing myself up there like them, so many years past.
I still wear my watch on the right. Habit, I suppose.
