I probably started playing in my sandbox on Marquette Street in Bay City in the early 1950s. I was the only child in a single-parent family which meant that everyday life was filled with pressures that come from trying to survive.
The sandbox was an escape, my own kingdom where I was only limited by my imagination. I had a bright yellow cast iron Shell Oil truck, a few plastic soldiers, a rubber ball or two and a whole bunch of sticks of every size. That's all I needed.
My kids had a sandbox. It was a small plastic swimming pool filled with a couple of bags of sand from Toys R US.
I wonder if President Trump ever had a sandbox. Probably not.