I was a tot back then, barely old enough to make sense of what I was seeing out the old black Studebaker Grandma had given Mom and Dad when Grandpa couldn't drive it any more. Hey! I'd say, what's that? I knew trees and houses and cars and clotheslines and clouds and man and woman and little boy or girl, but I still wasn't sharp enough on the uptake to know fistfight or the car that just passed us is speeding.
If Dad was in a good mood he'd tease, make things up to explain what I was seeing, explanations that were totally false. Mom's soft laughter would float back on the throaty wind passing through the open rear window of the car. Now, that's not so at all, Bobby. That dog really likes the other dog, that's all. Or that soldier has his thumb out because he wants a ride.
It took a few more years to make sense of the parrying ellipses between Mom and Dad, but when I did it was a marriage of imagination and reality and that's what led me ever so slowly to learn the sensibilities of stories read and written.