I grew up with an apple tree in my backyard. It grew green apples. One time, it became covered in black caterpillars, which my dad sprayed with something to get rid of them. The apples weren’t good for eating raw for some reason – that’s what my mom said and I didn’t ask why. Not one to let things go to waste, my mom made applesauce from those green apples, which we ate fresh and warm.The apple tree was home base for kickball and wiffleball, both of which I was very good at until I hit a growth spurt…but that’s another story. The kids in the neighborhood came to my house to play since I was the only one with real bases, aka pieces of slate from one of my dad’s home improvement projects. In either game, the ball going over the fence at the other end of the yard signaled an instant homer. Everyone chanted “home-er, home-er, home-er!” as our teammate effortlessly circled the bases with a real sense of accomplishment.

My mom hung laundry between the apple tree and another big tree in the yard. It blew in the wind and smelled nicer than all the Bounce in the world.

I never heard gunshots, and as far as I knew only old people died. People only got killed on TV. Only grownups had babies, and when I saw my friend stealing I went home and told my mom.

I wasn’t allowed to ride my bike in the street, though I loved racing down the hill and skidding in the sand when my mom wasn’t looking. We rarely locked our front door. My grandparents, and later my auntie and uncle, lived across the street. All were surrogate parents to my sister, brother, and me.

As I fell asleep, I heard the house settling – or crickets chirping, their frequency and volume indicating the weather of the next day. When I woke up, birds sang in my bedroom window. Once in awhile, we all went to Ihop where I had the only thing on the menu as far as I was concerned – chocolate chip pancakes.