Among all the old photos I’ve digitized, this one from 1967 has an exceptionally mesmerizing pull on me.

There are a few others that lend some credibility to the idea that there was harmony and happiness in my early life, that things were, at least for a while, pretty hunky-dory.

I’m assuming my father took this particular photograph of me and my mom having breakfast or lunch on the porch in front of the wooden beach house in Malibu.

My parents rented the house from a woman who lived above us. I think her name was Thelma or Wilma.

We never lived there permanently, only on weekends and during summer vacations. Despite it being so long ago, I still have a few vivid memories of those early Malibu years.

Back then, Malibu wasn’t nearly as posh or expensive as it is today. It catered to all walks of life, including hippies, artists and creative folk like my parents.

What’s difficult for me to wrap my head around in this image is how beautiful and peaceful my mother looks. I’m not sure if Tyko had been born yet. He might have been sleeping inside, in the back bedroom of the house, which was so close to Pacific Coast Highway that I remember hearing the cars pass by.

The house is long gone, and the last time I walked along the beach in Malibu was when I turned 50. We stayed a couple of nights at the now-demolished Casa Malibu and celebrated my birthday at Nobu Malibu.