I was back in West Hartford, Connecticut recently. As you know, my mother died in January. There's stuff to do, you know? My sister's currently living in mom's condo; we're trying to sell it, and Stu and I went back to try to sort through things, from mom's books, and jewelry to photo albums and well, you know, stuff. While there, I managed to have lunch with Bill and Peg, to hang out with Rich, catch up with Holly, and to meet Barbara. Barbara had asked me to call when we were back in Connecticut, just so she could meet me. She knows my sister but felt simply like it would be nice for us to meet. Barbara is the financial advisor who handles the Howard L Goldberg Trust. Our trust.

I appreciated her interest and to be honest, I wanted to meet Barbara. Over the phone, her voice got my attention (I'm always interested in voices, accents, the ways people sound) and I was dying to know where she was from and what her story was simply because she was nice and helpful and she's responsible for a big chunk of our lives right now.

So Barbara (who was out of town for almost our entire stay) came by the condo one afternoon to spend a little time with Stu and me. We just sat in the living room and talked. And yes, turns out I was right that I had heard something in her voice; Barbara was born in St. Martin. Oh, okay, that was that warm tone I had heard. Her family came to the States when she was young and they settled in New London. Oh really? Barbara, I went to college in New London. Oh, she says, I went to college in Hartford. Heh, heh. How about that. (keep in mind that we don't kow each others' ages but it would appera that we are about the same age).

We keep going, just rambling about where we lived. When her family moved to Hartford, where did they move to? Well, around Blue Hills Avenue. Er, Barbara, that's my old neighborhood. That's where my sister and I grew up, where we were raised - the neighborhood I most identify with in terms of childhood. Okay, interesting.

I don't remember the area all that well - my sister, I think, knows it much better - but I have looked at maps recently, looking to orient myself to the Hartford of my childhood, the north end where my school and library were. So, I say (what the heck, right?) what street did you live on, do you remember? Of course, says Barbara, we lived on Simpson Street.

Wait. Wait a second. Come on. Really? Um, Barbara? That's the street I grew up on. No. Yeah! No! Yeah really. I don't recall if we moved from Nahum Drive and "the projects" when U was born at Mount Sinai Hospital or before or what, but we were living in a housing project and then my parents got us a house on Simpson Street where we lived until they separated when I was 12 or 13. But it's the home I remember as my first, complete with the telephone I remembered as my first. Thousands of memories of playing and walking, weeding and cooking, sledding, rollerskating, reading, growing up, being a child on that street. Trick-or-treating, going to the candy store for Lik-M-Aid. Where the Good Humor truck cruised or, more importantly, Mr. Softee. And the milkman delivered to the silvery box on our back stoop. Where we played in the orchestra, had spelling bees, had summer cookouts and watched our parents play bridge. In January, one visitor to the house was a friend from that childhood - Laura, who lived one street over and who I probably knew from the time I was what, two? It had never come up with my mother or Howard. Why would it? You don't talk to your financial advisor about your childhood home, do you?

Okay, so this is pretty cool, right? We moved away from this neighborhood when I was an adolescent. I attended junior and senior high in West Hartford where I've found so many people in recent months. But come on, this is the same street? Barbara? Do you remember what your address was? Sure she does. She lived at 76 Simpson Street.

Yes. Yeah, that's right. That was my house. That was the house where I grew up, where mom was cookie captain. Where we attended Mark Twain School and went to the Blue Hills Branch Library, where we were befriended by Mrs. Busby and Mrs. Lebetkin. I lived at 76 Simpson Street. The fourth from the bottom of the street, the one that shared the driveway with the Glickmans next door. Where Pat learned violin and I learned flute and we both studied piano. That was Barbara's house too.

I don't have a word for what this felt like but it sure felt like that.