My family moved into a brand new tract of homes in the suburb town of Lakewood, Colorado. I was six years old. The neighborhood was so new there were houses being built and sold all around us and the local elementary school wasn’t finished being built. So the kids in first and second grades temporarily were schooled in a new house on my street, just a few houses away from ours.

On my first day of first grade, I walked into school to begin my career as a kid with responsibilities beyond not eating mud. The teacher did a roll call and, as the case would be for the rest of my life, I was called, usually third or fourth, after Anderson and Brown. And, as would be the case for the next forever years, she called me, “William,” like it says on my driver’s license. I told her “my name is Ken.” And she accepted it just like that. Many times since it seems to cause confusion that I would be called a different name that matches my middle initial, but she got it right off.

Our first assignment was to help her fill out little cards with our information. Since most of us didn’t know how to write very well yet, she asked us the questions and she filled in the little note cards. She noted on mine that my name was “Ken” and used an initial for my first name. I still do that if some stupid form decides I have to use my real first name in order to do whatever it is I am trying to do.

The next slot was for my address. I didn’t know it. But her records had the address and she told me, “Memorize your address.” And she told me it was 432 Robb Way, Lakewood, Colorado. There weren’t zip codes back then. She wrote the address down on the card and also wrote it on a piece of paper for me.

After she had filled all the cards for us, she told us that our assignment for the next day would be to be able to tell her our address. And then we had recess. I don’t remember anything else we did that day. And I don’t really remember much else about that little two-room school. They finished building the elementary school a couple of months later and I started walking a few blocks and through a field to the new big school with a playground, basketball hoops, and four square courts.

The next day, when she asked us one by one, to tell her where we lived, most could tell her, some didn’t quite get it, and one kid didn’t have a clue what she was talking about. I recited firmly, “I live at 432 Robb Way, Lakewood, Colorado.”

I was proud when she said, “Nice job, Ken.”

It is the only address of my life I can recall besides my current one, and I’ve had many. I also remember two phone numbers in my life besides the one I have now. One was a business I ran and one was my mom’s before she got a cell phone.

A few years back when I was touring with a band, we played a gig in Denver. We had a local contact/fan who when I asked where he lived, he said Lakewood. I told him I lived there fifty years ago and I told him my address proudly. He lived a few houses away on the same street. Thanks to my teacher! I would have never known that information otherwise!

The weird shit I remember.