What a thrill for a boy to be in my shoes. I was eight and a half years old by now, and I couldn’t stand to stay in that bed once the sun struck the shade. I had to get up and go outside. The world was exciting, and my eyes sparkled with happiness.

I appreciated things that most people wouldn’t understand. The sound of a four engine airplane flying high over the valley was almost a beautiful music. It brought me a sense of freedom and tranquility. To this day, when I hear a certain tone of an airplane it reminds of those calm cheerful mornings up in the Heights.

In those early days there were suspense and thrills waiting around every corner.

I experienced more happiness than any material things could ever bring, or I wouldn’t be telling about it now.

But was it real, though? Was any of it real?

The memory is like a dream. Like the end of the world dissolving into the flaming colors of a vivid sunset.

What happened to it all? Where did it all go?