meeting david

When I was three years old we moved to the place where I did most of my growing up. I can remember riding in the clear-plastic-covered back seat of the realtor’s car to see the new house. As we drove up, a dark-headed five-year-old boy whose skin was browned by the sun stood in the next-door neighbor’s driveway and stared – rudely, I thought. I got out and stared back, hands on my hips.

“Tell him your name,” my parents prompted.

“My name is Lisa,” I stated imperiously.

“Lee-fa?” he lisped.

“No-o,” I retorted, drawing it out so his brain could better take it in, “Lisa.”

Now he grinned, and knew he had the better of me. “Lee-fa,” he stated, satisfied.

And thus began the vigorous and immensely enjoyable battle (in which I got repeatedly stomped in basketball and popping and riding wheelies, but held my own in swimming, running, spitting, “Indian” burns, and most everything else) that lasted for the next fifteen years.

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