Oddly enough I remember crying when my mother went to the hospital to give birth to my brother, but my memory of myself is such that I see myself on the floor crying. This is not only my one of my earliest memories but an out of body experience to boot.

Above: On back of photo the inscription reads "1962 in NY kitchen."

Running home from nursery school with my mother (toward the Hudson, we lived on Riverside Drive), trying to keep up with some other kids, and I fell and broke my two front teeth.

Standing in the kitchen, I see a women in a red bathrobe sweep into the kitchen. It is either my mother or Ann Zanes, a friend of my parents.

My grandfather Sam, after his stroke is walking toward me in his walker. He is playing hide and seek with me, hiding in the bathtub, and under his bed, in spite of his limited mobility.

Above: Miles driving with Evon pulling up the rear, processing date of August 1962

I remember other small fragments:

Perched on a bathroom or kitchen sink, I am looking down at the New York street far below. With each passing car or truck I call out to my mother "car!" or "truck!" When a taxi passes, this is cause for great excitement, and I call out "taxi!"

There was a nursery school I attended. It was on the roof of a building. There was a chain link fence all around the roof.

Above: My father Paul Hochstein in a kitchen that seems vaguely familiar, 1962.

I remember vaguely my grandmother Ida too, in this period, and the strange and old smell of her kitchen. She is cooking soup... chicken soup of course.

Right: My Grandmother Ida Leshan Hochstien holds my brother Evon, while I hold his hand.