Book by Peter L. Colman

Here, at age eight, I had my first serious fight with a ‘friend’ down the alley. He had come out of his house with an arrow. I had a bow and arrows of my own, so I went up those back stairs and returned with one of my better arrows (with a metal tip) and a bright shiny garbage can lid for a shield. No one was going to challenge King Arthur in his own castle! This incident sorely tested my omnipotence. The young boy’s mother broke up the fight before either of us could inflict savagery upon the other. Sometime later, after we patched up our differences, I remember bolting from his back door and tripping on a nail protruding from the edge of his wooden deck, hitting the ground flat on my stomach, rolling in excruciating pain, the wind knocked out of my pre-adolescent invincibility.

The house on Manchester Street was our first city home; I spent my first seven years (the only years Mom and Dad seemed to enjoy their marriage), living in an extremely old house (built in 1822) at the junction of the Old Dunbarton Road and Morse Road (a few miles northwest of my hometown of Manchester). My Dad had been in the Marine Corps, and experienced a radical foxhole conversion to Christ at age nineteen somewhere in the Solomon Islands (New Caledonia, I believe). He and my Mom married after he returned home, a decorated war hero, and one of five brothers, all of whom fought in the war, survived, and are still alive and living in their native New England. My Dad was a police officer. His hours were such that I hardly remember him ever being home. All I recall is the day we painted the living room bright red, right over the old wallpaper. Curiously, however, the most vivid brushstrokes that survive the childhood canvas of my life are those of Dunbarton.



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