The Dump

When I was about six, we moved into what I recognize now as a temporary low-rent high-rise apartment in the D.C. area. We shared a blinking black and white TV with others in the musty, ragged-carpeted lobby, we walked up dark stairwells to our place, and I slept on a roll-away bed in the living/dining room. My Dad was between assignments, and was home a lot. Years later my parents referred to that place as The Dump, and made all sorts of disparaging remarks about it, the neighborhood, and those times. What I remember is this: admiring my new tennis shoes as I played on the sidewalk, my Dad carrying me on his shoulders, and the spectacle of the national fireworks at the Washington Monument on the 4th of July. I remember The Dump fondly.