I don't know how old I was, perhaps 3 or 4, or somewhere in between. But I have a memory, one my parents deny though the image is clear in my mind.
A giant pitcher of lemonade held tightly in my arms.
Carefully walking down the wooded path made by my dad's truck.
My dad splitting wood on a stump in a small clearing, truck parked near by.
I hand him the lemonade.
I return home with the empty pitcher.
I know when I was young we lived in Maine, in a small house set on 13 acers of wooded, swampy land. My dad used to cut fire wood for the stove in the basement that helped to keep the house warm in winter. Of my delivering lemonade they remember nothing, but it is one of the few memories I have of that house, not altered by photographs or stories. My only regret is that they sold the land when they got divorced. I really wanted that land, but now I understand.