I was 11 when my brother took this Anscochrome slide of Larkspur, California, where I grew up. Around then I might have gone to the twin-towered City Hall at left, either to the Library to satisfy my curiosity about freeways, dinosaurs, coins or, believe it or not, peruse collections of New Yorker cartoons, or to the city offices to bug the clerks for copies of city forms I could adapt for the make-believe city I incorporated our yard into. Alongside is the fire house, where I might take pictures of the trucks. Across the street is St. Patrick's church, where I'd fidget during Mass every Sunday. Our house was a block away, hidden by the trees. Farther along, the steep-gabled building is the old St. Patrick's, where once a week fellow Catholic kids and I on religious instruction release from our public grade school would attend Catechism classes where stern nuns would attempt to drill dogma into our little souls. Below the church, the Ford woody is in the parking lot behind the Rainbow Market (red roof at left), where earlier my father worked for a few years. Down center, the small roof with the flag pole is the then-new Larkspur Post Office building. And then, a 1956 Pontiac.
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