One of my (five) brothers says he can remember events of his childhood back to the age of three, perhaps two.
But there are days, pieces of days, that do stick out for me.
My family lived at the corner of St. Rte. 281 and Township Road 11 in Henry County, Ohio, when I was a pre-schooler.
There, I stopped biting my fingernails. We had a puppy named Penny. I fell into the creek along St. Rte. 281 after crawling through the underground tiles.
Dad remodeled the brick house, closing in a doorway with brick that matched the walls. I bathed in a tub in the warm kitchen.
One evening my (then) two brothers and I played hide and seek (as dusk came on) around an old abandoned piano that was temporarily located in the yard near the house. I can remember looking at the little red pads on the keys’ ends. The pads softened the strike of the keys, I discovered.
I discovered more things about the world around me, and I wrote my first story.