My first memories in life all involve my father.
I was born in New Mexico. I love this because it is strange and random and out of place…and perfectly delightful.
My dad was the pastor of a very small church in the city that harbors the sprawling Philmont Scout Ranch. I do not remember our home from that time: my parents tell me it was very small and very humble. But my parents had good friends in the town that I called “Grammy Lou” and “Papa Harry.” They were like a third pair of grandparents, and their home I do remember. It was just down the road from where we lived. I remember vividly walking toward it one night: the valley below us, the stars all around us, and my father either holding my hand, or bearing me up on his shoulders.