Tuesday, November 16, 2004


Some of our earliest and most precious memories are of our mothers singing us to sleep. It’s almost primordial, the pleasure we feel when a loving parent tucks us into bed or enfolds us in loving arms. And these memories, buried deeply below the surface of our consciousness, shape our personalities and give structure to our very lives.

All of which goes a long way toward explaining my twisted mind. Because my earliest “lullaby memory” is of my Daddy singing me this song:
I had a little dog and his name was Jack.
He made a little doody on the railroad track.
The train came by,
The doody flew high,
And hit the conductor right in the eye.
Thanks, Dad. All that I am, I owe to you.

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