It seems like one of the things that happen as you get older is that you find yourself thinking about the past more often than you had before. The people you have known. The places you have been. The things that you have experienced.

In March of this year I spent time with my brother Paul in Santa Cruz, California. It is where he now lives and where I lived the first 6 years of my life, 1960-1966.

My memories of those days, of course, are few and quite fuzzy. They are more a feeling, an impression, a quick image.

The Santa Cruz I left when my family moved North in 1966 and the Santa Cruz I found in 2024 were, of course, quite different places. The small, beach town was gone. A small city had taken its place.

Some of the strongest memories of those early days are of the apartment house that we lived in then and of the little beach that was just a block away.

In 1966, the apartment building backed up to an orchard. Apples I think. All I remember was seeing it through the fence of the apartment’s courtyard. There are houses there now.

Next door to our apartment building was a convent. The Mother Superior was apparently not a fan of little boys. After some boyhood prank, she supposedly told my mother that I was “an evil little child and that he would not amount to anything.” The convent, and the Mother Superior, are long gone now.

Looking back at our pasts, it seems like we have two options. We can dwell there or simply choose to visit. The latter choice allows you to forgive others and yourself. The other does not.

Here is a selfie of me in front of the apartment house, and one of Sunny Cove Beach.