Chapter One

 My story starts well before I was born. My mom and dad desperately wanted a baby. Their brothers and sisters had many, many children before I was born, and both my parents loved children. Finally, about five years after they were married, they decided to adopt a child. They readied the room and were filled with happy anticipation, then to their surprise my mom became pregnant with me. They cancelled the adoption so another couple could welcome that baby, and began to prepare for my birth. 

I was born on February 14, 1959, Valentine's Day, one day before my dad's birthday, February 15th. It was a difficult birth for my mother. I was bruised and had a dislocated hip upon arrival. My parents were delighted with me, but very, very protective. My mom took pleasure in dressing me in beautiful outfits. I was loved.

Less than two years after my birth, my parents welcomed Paul Henry Pratt, Jr., then two years later, Christine Marie Pratt. We lived in the second floor apartment of a three decker on 209 Pilgrim Avenue in Worceser, Massachusetts. My grandparents, Peter and Helen Pratt, owned the three decker. An old man lived on the third floor. 

I loved our apartment. The ceilings were high, the rooms were shaped in interesting ways, and there was detail to the windows and doors. We had a large pantry, two bedrooms, a big kitchen, dining room, living room, and front porch. We also had a giant yard with a playhouse, yard swing, garden, and big, wide driveway. 

I lived in that house for my first six years. I have many fond memories. I remember looking over the big garden with my jolly, kind grandfather, Papa, playing in the dollhouse with my brother Paul and cousins, and welcoming my grandfather and his friends back from one of their fishing trips. They had a tin bucket of fish, and that night the family gathered in my grandparents' kitchen to enjoy the delicious fish. I had my first taste of lobster that day, and I loved it.

My mom took us for walks all the time. She and her neighborhood friends would wind their baby carriages and lead all the small children up and down the sidewalked streets in the Grafton Hill neighborhood of Worcester. My mom always tells us how my brother Paul and my grandparents' dog, Butchie, would run up and down every driveway. There was a little corner store one block away from our house that we'd visit to buy candy and household items too. 

Mom was ta joyful person. Typically she was busy getting ready for one event or another and singing while working. She made light of any problem and kept a positive attitude. I have some funny memories of those early days. I remember her chasing a small mouse through the kitchen with a broom, telling us that the thunder was actually the neighbor upstairs moving furniture, and cozying up with she and my dad as we watched the Walt Disney show or Ed Sullivan on Sunday Nights. 

My brother Paul was full of energy. He was also very curious and difficult to keep up with. Once he climbed up onto the washing machine and drank a cup of bleach. That was frightening. The ambulance came and took him to the hospital. Fortunately he survived. I had my own visit to St. Vincent's Hospital in those days to get my tonsils out. I remember when they put the big rubber anesthesia device on my face before the surgery and how awful I felt afterwards. Someone gave me a beautiful little doll, but Paul, because he was envious of the attention I was getting, stripped the doll of its clothes and threw it into the woodsy, wet land behind our yard. I wasn't too happy.

During those days, we usually spent our Sundays on an outing of some sort. We would go to Green Hill Park to see the animals, take a drive to the Quabbin for a hike, and visit other local parks for picnics. Sometimes we drove our Aunt Catherine back to Dorcheser where she lived. I liked those trips to Boston, and we would take a one week vacation in Eastham, Cape Cod every year where we spent most of our time playing in the waves, building sand castles, taking long walks, and enjoying sunsets at the bay. 

The days on Pilgrim Ave were happy days surrounded by good people in a warm and welcoming home. It was a good way to start life.