The Apartments
Treasure-Hunting, Drugs, and Other Childhood Memories
Author’s note: This essay was originally submitted as an eleventh grade (year twelve) English assignment. It is reproduced here in slightly edited form, preserving the original style. Re-reading the essay so many years on, my main observation—beyond the prolixity and awkward tone—is that it seems oddly remote, considering that the experiences being described had occurred, at most, a decade prior. (The essay recounts parts of my life between six and thirteen; it was written when I was sixteen.)
Teacher’s comments: “You are sounding more and more like Dickens! Sentences are marvelous! I was caught up in your apartment adventures. I still find hiemal excessive.” [We had debated the use of the word, which I defended on the grounds that it was an interesting—if also obscure—word.]
The last box of our possessions had been wearily lugged into the only bedroom of our basement suite. It was one week after my sixth birthday, and my father and I had just moved into the apartment building in which I was to spend most of my childhood.
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