As the world enters a new year and a new decade, I'm posed at the entry to our property in Larkspur, looking very small, appropriately enough. Later that year, I'll enter high school where I'll feel really
small. But here, my home turf provides familiarity and a refuge from the looming uncertainties of the larger world Out There. The temperate Northern California winter has coaxed the daffodils, narcissus, sweet alyssum and flowering quince into bloom.
At the time, ours was the only house on our street, on which I'm standing; it was actually a concrete stairway. It lent its name to my sometimes-weekly newspaper, The Arch Street News.
Though officially part of the town I'd incorporated our yard into, the front walk didn't have a name; other paths had such imaginative designations as "Garage Ave." and "Compost Rd." I appointed myself City Manager; Father held the ceremonial office of Mayor but, revealingly, Mother was Chief of Police.
Kodacolor negative by my brother.
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