Pg. 3 | The LRose Story
with the skunk. Nobody ever figured out why.
At the other end of the house was my room. The window of my bedroom was as tall and as large as any fairy tale giant I had ever imagined, just as I believed my dog was a fabled giant dog (My parents always referred to her as my dog, and I grew up calling her my dog, but of course she wasn’t my dog at all, she was my father’s pet). Decades later I learned that Golden Retrievers, while classified as a large breed, are not the giant breed I believed them to be at age 3, like the Great Dane or Irish Wolfhound. But that’s how I thought of her.
In a similar way I discovered the truth about the actual size of Golden Retrievers—which lead to my conclusion that it’s all a matter of perspective from the point of view you have at the time—I also discovered on a visit to the old neighborhood that what I remembered as my giant bedroom window was pretty much the same dimensions as, say, a sliding glass door. As I stood looking at it from across the street on that visit, I remembered feeling at the time as though I slept in a glass room. I later shared that memory with my mother. She said it probably was because the window was disproportionately large for a room only a few square feet in diameter.
“Your room was really not much more than a walk-in closet. I think it was designed to be a home office or sewing room, ” she said. I didn’t remember the room being tiny. To my three year-old mind, it was a large and gracious glassed-in parlor.
Sometime during the first year or two in that house, the small freight train that ran from the