ONE OF THESE DAYS I'm going to get my father to critique these memories. I'm quite sure that much of what I say here looked completely different to the adults at the time.

The house I have been writing about recently—the little house on the farm—was later called "the little white house" within our family.

We moved a lot when I was young. By the time I entered third grade we no longer lived in Iowa, and I had lived in nine different houses and a trailer.

We would rent a house in Iowa during the winter when my father was teaching, and then, when summer came, we would pack everything up and move to my mother's parents farm, where my father would help out during the summer.

On a couple of occasions, we rented one place, and lived there while we waited for, or looked for, another.

So, when we would talk about memories, as children, my mother would often have to ask, "What house was that in?" to pin down the period.

We would reply, "The big white house," or "The little grey house."

For some reason the classification system depended entirely on color and relative size. The only exceptions were "The trailer," "Nanna and Grampa's," and "Grandma's".

And so, the little house on the farm was officially called, "The little white house."

One of the things I remember about the little white house was the bay window—or, more exactly, the space underneath the bay window.

The floor of the house was actually some distance above the ground. I don't know it this was just the way it was built, or if there was a cellar below, as there often were in those houses.

Whatever the reason, the window jutted out from the house a foot or two at least above the ground, leaving a sheltered area underneath.

On a sunny day I would play there, in the shade, and on rainy days I would play there, shelter from the rain.

It would drip off the roof, and on to the ground, forming a curtain of drops around me.

There were a variety of old toys under there, in various states of disrepair, all too far gone to be welcomed back into the house.

The only one I have a specific memory of was a Jack-in-the-box. It was made of thick cardboard, with a printed label which had half peeled off, and even in it's disreputable condition it still worked.

The cardboard would get a little soggy when it had been raining, and would have an interesting texture to the touch.

I would turn the handle rapidly—

"Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel..."

And, as I neared the end of the song, I would slow down—

"The monkey...

thought it was...

all in...

fun..."

And then, painfully slow, in complete silence, with building suspense, I would turn the handle, a hairs-breadth at a time, edging toward the unknown moment...

until...

POP!

The top would sping open, startling me every time, in spite of the fact that I had been through thousands of repetitions, and had been controlling the entire process.

It all seems to boil down to the fact that I couldn't exactly predict the precise second the clown would jump out.

"...goes the weasel."