Part III

Part of the reason that my parents hadn't initially known how often I had been going over to Oma's, was that from a very early age I did what I wanted and did not see any need to tell anyone about it. Also my room was outfitted with some sweet sliding glass windows so I could pretty much come and go as I pleased. And now some unorganized but memorable thoughts from this time period:

Oma had a teenage daughter who babysat me sometimes. She was not quite as fun as Oma but she was still nice. She is now married with a son of her own (much to Oma's delight).

My neighbors on the other side of our house had a dog named stazi who was small and brown and happy and ran in circles most of the time.

Beyond their house there was a boy who was just a little bit older than I was. I used to play with him sometimes, but not that often because his parents didn't really like foreigners, I think. I don't remember his name but he had dark hair and was ever so slightly mean to me. The thing was: he had a tractor. This tractor was The Shit. I could have driven that petal-powered-motherfucker all day long. It was large (relative to a 3 year old boy) and had a functional shovel attached to the front, which was controlled by two levers that allowed for some serious digging and dumping action. Man, I loved that tractor.

My first word was "Traktor", that's the German word for tractor. I loved tractors and all other types of construction equipment (der Kipper, der Bagger, der Kran). When there was a construction site in the area my dad would take me there so I could watch. For my second birthday my mom took me to a tractor convention in a nearby town. It is a fairly normal thing for little boys to think construction equipment is awesome. I don't know if its all that normal for little boys use it for attempted manslaughter.