Sunday, January 2, 2011


Now that we've gotten past the fact that my family are my friends (and my closest, at that) I have a story for you.

When I was 16 months old (fact supplied by my mom as I sit on a kitchen stool while everyone else makes lemonade) we moved to Pasadena, California. Home of the Rose Parade and a two-story house on South Los Robles where my mom would eventually grow a spectacular garden and win an award for city beautification. My favorite part of our yard, after the flowers, was the three plum trees in the front.

It was like this:

I had three good friends in Pasadena before we moved to Palm Springs in December of '97, when I was five and a half. Their names were Amber, Allison, and Marilyn. The parents in our ward organized a day at the park every Thursday, when we would all play together. We always got super excited to watch the dump truck pick the trash up outside the park:
I'm the pink and purple one on the far left.

Here is a picture of me and those friends at my fifth birthday party, about six months before I moved away. (Note: my name was scrawled in pink marker on the back of this picture.)
Order, left to right: baby Spencer, Amber, Me, Allison, Marilyn (who was a year younger than us)

Life in Pasadena was fun. I was sad to move.

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