Ice Caves

Some of my favorite childhood summer memories are from time spent at my cousin's cabin.

All of my dad's surviving siblings were parents, and some were grandparents, by the time my dad got married, so I grew up playing with my cousins' kids. (This seemed very normal to me, and incomprehensible to my husband when we were dating and first married. "You must have that wrong." He could not imagine cousins an entire generation older than he was. When my husband's dad was 50, all of his own kids were married, and he had 4 grandkids. When my dad was 50, he got married, for the first and only time.) Dad had helped raise my cousin Lynne - in fact, she herself always phrased it as "raised me," not "helped" - before he had children of his own, and they were always very close. We, my sister and I, spent a lot of time with Lynne's three sons.

Lynne's second husband, George, worked for Pacific Gas and Electric, and they owned cabins that the employees could use for a nominal fee. Sometimes when Lynne's family would go to the cabin near Mt. Shasta, they'd take us with them. I don't recall feeling stacked like cord wood, but it must have been a tight fit. Sometimes we had Lynne, George, Lynne's sons Joe, John and Chris, George's mother, known to all as Ma Bell (since her last name was Bell), George's son George, my parents, my sister June and me, all in a 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom cabin. In our room there was a double bed (for my parents) and a bunk bed (for us kids), and the other bedroom was similarly outfitted, with the bathroom inbetween. Somebody had to have slept on the screened in patio, and someone on the living room couch.

I loved that cabin. I loved the tiny town with 81 residents, reachable only by dirt road, that it was in. I loved the mountain most of all. It just spoke to me. I've spent most of my life in a valley ringed by peaks of the Sierras, and I spent my newlywed and new parent years in a small town facing a large peak, but the one I refer to as "my mountain" is Shasta. I haven't been there for years, but she'll always be my mountain. I know exactly when she appears - or disappears - from view on any highway in her vicinity.

Small towns and summer meant freedom. I'm probably the last generation that had their parents feel safe turning them loose and saying, "Be back before dark." We rode my cousins' three wheelers, we fished, we went down to the general store and played pool or bought ice cream.

One year, the boys wanted to take us through "the ice caves," lave tubes that had ice in them year round. We thought this was a great idea. Our moms were onboard. My dad was not.

My dad was a pretty typical macho man with chauvinist tendencies. Had we been sons, he would have agreed in a second. But, we were girls, and therefore too delicate and incapable. He was terrified that we'd be hurt, by anything. We weren't even allowed to wash dishes - "Something might break and cut you." Dad put the "over" in "overprotective."

This was maddening to me. I felt perfectly capable of handling anything that the boys could. And the caves sounded really cool - the boys once found an antique gun and a lizard frozen in the ice.

So - kids, don't try this at home - our mothers conspired with us to let us go. We would smuggle our coats and gloves out of the house, and just neglect to tell Dad where we were going. We could put on our outerwear just before we went into the caves. Our moms knew where we'd be and when we'd be back.

The age spread was about 5 years from oldest to youngest. June and my cousin Joe were 3 years older than me, John, 2 years older, little George ("Georgie") was my age, and Chris was two years younger. Georgie was at his mom's for the week this particular summer. Joe was down the street helping Spence, one of the year round residents, reshingle his house. (Joe was hitting the age where he'd rather make money than spend time with "the little kids.") So, four of us set out to walk to the caves. I've always been bad at estimating distance, but it was probably about half a mile, out of town and past the campground.

The caves were great. Most gave us plenty of room to walk upright, although some were narrow enough that we had to go single file. It was cold; we needed the coats. Sometimes, we'd have to duck through an opening. We didn't find anything cool frozen in the ice, but we had fun.

Then we came across a cave that the boys hadn't previously been through. The only opening we could find was one that we'd have to crawl through, and I for one wasn't keen on that. We'd had to climb down a steep incline covered in loose rock to the cavern where we were sitting. There was a log that I was using as a bench, and several small holes in the rock that let us see through to what looked like a large cavern. It was bright enough inside that it had to have large openings somewhere, but we couldn't find any.

John was on his hands and knees, trying to see if we could all fit through the hole that only appeared to be about 18 inches tall. We were starting to get antsy, and complain about how long it was taking. "Let's just go on to the next one." "Hang on, I think I'm almost there." I went over to check an opening above John, one only a few inches across. I wanted to see where we were headed. It looked like the cavern below me was huge - I thought of a ballroom - with stones littering the floor. Still, I could see no way in. I sighed and sat back up.

Now June was getting ready to follow John. "It looks like we only have to crawl for a few feet."

"I'm not squeezing through there!"

"If we can fit, you can fit."

Suddenly, John started yelling. "Back! Back! Go back! Get out!" June sat back and John scrambled out of the hole. The rest of us were saying, "What? What?" when we all heard it - a sound, a roar, from inside the cave.

Panic ensued, total panic. All four of us tried to run up the slope at the same time, sliding and stumbling. Behind us, the sound seemed to repeat, to get louder. I was the slowest, and I was quickly behind the others. "Wait! Wait!"

"CATCH UP! Hurry!"

And then, I fell. I slid backwards, yelling for help, and everyone else hit the top of the incline and scrambled out. I crawled the last few feet as everyone yelled at me to hurry, and lurched to my feet as they took off running. "Wait! Wait!" I limped. "My foot! I hurt my foot!" We ran - OK, I hobbled - until we hit the road and stopped to breathe.

"What was that?" With the moment of panic over, we turned to John for answers. We'd all heard the noise, but we wouldn't have panicked without John panicking.

John explained that he was head and shoulders through into the cavern. "And then, the entire back wall moved."

"Something moved?"

"The whole wall moved! The whole thing!"

We didn't know what we'd run from. It could have been a landslide, a bear, Bigfoot, the little people Native American legend said lived on the mountain and caused hikers to disappear, a rift in the space/time continuum, an earthquake - it all seemed equally plausible and impossible.

We still had plenty of time before we had to be back, but we decided to cut the day short. "We can't go running home scared. We have to act like nothing happened." I mean, all we needed was for my dad, with his temper, to hear that we'd actually been in the presence of something dangerous. We all knew that situation would get ugly fast. We decided to just casually stroll home.

"You can't limp like that."

"It hurts!"

"Well, we can't go home with you dragging your foot that way!"

My big toe throbbed. "I think I broke my toe."

"You did not."

"It'll be fine."

They were right, though. I couldn't let my dad see that I'd been hurt. He'd never let me out of his sight again.

I'd pretty well perfected the casual walk by the time we hit the edge of town. It hurt, but so did limping. We stuck our hands in our pockets and strolled, ever so casually, into town.

We were coming up the street towards Spence's house, where we'd turn left and go up to the cabin. We could see Joe and Spence on the roof, ripping and hammering. Joe had peeled off his shirt in the midday summer heat. He was hot and sweaty, wearing only a pair of short cutoffs and his shoes. We were still a couple of blocks away when he looked up and saw us coming. He stopped work and stared. Then, he called Spence over - we were too far away to hear the words - and Spence stopped and stared. They wiped the sweat with bandanas and just watched.

"Are you still limping?"

"NO! Look at me! I'm fine!"

We continued our casual stroll up the street, trying to look innocent. As we came up to the house, Joe leaned over. In his best deadpan, casual voice, he said, "Cold out, isn't it?"

THE COATS! We were all still in heavy coats and gloves! The boys had hats on! In the middle of the day, in the middle of the summer! Within sight of the cabin! OHMYGOSH!

"Not really. We were just..."

"It was colder earlier..."

"It's hotter up there."

Joe was not interested. "Uh huh," he said, and went back to hammering.

We peeled off all of our outerwear in a flash. I don't remember where we stashed it - maybe in one of the cars. Then, trying again to project casual innocence, we strolled back into the cabin.

Both moms were surprised. "You're home early."

John did the talking. "Yeah. We just decided to come back early." He may have offered an excuse - hunger? fatigue? - but I don't recall. We waited until my dad and George went somewhere - maybe on a firewood run - and then told the story, with lots of dramatic gesturing.

Neither Lynne nor Mom was particularly concerned. We heard a noise, we ran - not a big deal. Both were very sensible, capable women, trying hard to raise sensible, capable children.

"I think I broke my big toe," I said. Instead of getting better, the pain had actually gotten worse.

"Does it feel like it's bleeding? Should we take a look now?"

"No, no, it's not bleeding. We can check it at bedtime." Again, hiding it was more important than risking Dad seeing it.

That night, while I got ready for bed, Mom and Lynne checked my foot. My toe had swelled dramatically into a tiny purple barrel shape.

"Can you bend it?"

I flexed just enough to move the toe. "Ow!"

"OK. If you can bend it, it's not broken. You've just burst all the blood vessels. It'll hurt like hell for a few days, but you'll be OK," Mom said.

Allow me to pause here to, in effect, sing a love song to my mother. This exchange is really indicative of her parenting. When I grew up and started devouring child development texts, I discovered that the way my mom behaved - apparently instinctively - was what experts recommend. If a child is hurt, physically or mentally, you shouldn't ignore or minimize it, but you also shouldn't allow the child to either panic or wallow (or do so yourself). You acknowledge the hurt, let the child experience and express the fear, pain or both, appropriately, but reassure them that it's temporary and that they can handle it. Then you send them on their way and let them handle it. That was the way my mother operated, all the time.

She checked it for me, acknowledged that it "hurt like hell," but also reassured me by using the word "just" before the scary description of "burst all the blood vessels." And, she reinforced that I would be OK. A brilliant woman, my mom. I try very hard to measure up to that standard.

"Do you want to wrap it?"

"No, no, that'll just make it bigger and more awkward. It should be fine." I cringed when I put my shoes on the next morning, since the swelling made it a tight fit, but it wasn't too bad.

We went back to check the cave - with our mothers' permission - to see if we could figure out what had happened. The whole thing actually got creepier at this point. There had obviously been a rock slide of some kind. Most of the access holes, including the one I'd been looking through and the one John was crawling through, were blocked from the inside. A huge rock had dropped onto the log - cliche' as it sounds - exactly where I'd been sitting the day before, smashing it. The incline into the cavern looked steeper - or maybe we were just freaked out.

We never agreed about what it was - animal, geology, volcanic vent - and we didn't discuss it too much, either. I think that John was simultaneously embarrassed about having caused a scene, and firm in his conviction that running had saved us. I think we all were. We told our moms what we found, and their best guess was some kind of volcanic burp, if you will, from the mountain - some kind of tremor that triggered a rock slide. I held out for the Bigfoot theory.

We never went back to the caves, though. On at least three more summers, we explored everywhere but the lava tubes.

A day or so later, someone tripped over my foot and I yelped. "What is it?" my dad asked.

"I fell the other day, and hurt my toe. She just tripped on it," I said.

"Oh," said Dad, and went back to what he was doing.

I like to think that I'm my mother's child - describe the situation truthfully, but without too much detail or drama. Just the facts, ma'am. You don't have to remember a lie, and it keeps those around you from panicking.

Maybe that's the moral of this story.

Well, that and the fact that you'll never look quite as innocent as you think that you do.

I (Don't) Feel Pretty

I'm thinking about prettiness.

I wonder sometimes about what it feels like to be pretty. I'm considering it in a purely theoretical sense, like wondering what it would be like to live in a colony on Mars. I have no real experience in this area.

Now: STOP IT. Every time I say something like that, people leap at the opportunity to tell me how tragically low my self esteem is. They say, "You're just beautiful!" They're sure that I'm sad, or angry, or depressed. I'M NOT. I have no experience in being European, or redheaded, or speaking Portuguese, either, and none of that affects my self esteem. I've already covered this ground ( in "I'm OK, You're Mistaken"). I am fabulous. I am bright, talented, capable and many other wonderful things. I value all of those things much more than I value "pretty." In the right culture and/or time frame, I would be considered very pretty. I know this. PLEASE, for heaven's sake, let's ALL move past this idea that a woman cannot be whole unless she feels pretty. I am happy with myself.

Ironically, that attitude - that women NEED to be/feel pretty - is what leads me to contemplate it.

Of course, I've wondered what it would be like. I've concluded that it would probably be nice, at least most of the time. I've also wondered what it would be like to have nearly unlimited money - I'm talking the "burn my crumpled bills" kind of obscene wealth. I've concluded that it would probably be nice, at least most of the time. Yet, I have never factored it in to my day to day living, never figured that my life would be empty and unfulfilled without it. I do not feel that I have "settled" or given up or any other such drivel. It's an unnecessary outcome.

Talking to other women can be alienating. One of my dearest friends confided in me, long about the time we hit our 40s, "Every head doesn't turn when I walk into a room any more." She was in actual pain, I could tell. She was hurt. I should have been sympathetic, should have assured her that she remains beautiful (because she always has been). I should have helped her feel valued. Instead, I was entirely unsympathetic.

"Welcome to the real world! The rest of us have been living here for years."

Another friend once said, "Remember how it was in your 20s, when guys constantly hit on you, no matter where you were or who you were with?" No. I never experienced such a thing. Guys hit on my friends, sure. But aside from the fact that I've been married practically since childhood, most of the times that anybody hit on me, it tended to be the "you have girl parts; therefore, you'll suffice" kind of attention. It had nothing to do with me, personally.

You know how, in a lot of movies, TV or even books, a guy will have a female friend who's funny, loyal, great to be around and clearly adores him, but he never considers her female until he sees her dressed up for some fancy occasion; then, he'll suddenly realize that he loves her, because he realizes that she's pretty? I hate that convention. I hate those scenes. SO shallow. You can tell me all you like about how men are hardwired to respond to visual stimuli, how it's natural selection at work, how you can't fight biology, blah, blah, blah, and I'll still find it shallow.

The only time I watched one of those scenes and really applauded, it was on "Dawson's Creek." Joey (who is female, by the way, in case you never saw the show) has had a crush on her best friend Dawson for years. She's been trying and trying to get his attention. Then, she enters a pageant; she needs scholarship money for college. Dawson, after blowing off her advances, sometimes very rudely, sees her in her evening gown, with her hair and makeup done, and he swoons. He compliments her. He makes a pass at her, finally. Joey's response? "This is just a dress. This is makeup. It washes off." She wants nothing to do with his newfound intentions. She blows him off - not to make a point or teach him a lesson, but because she's not interested if all he's attracted to are the trappings.

Only once in my life did I ever have something even remotely similar happen. I was 17 or 18; the "Dawson's Creek" kids wouldn't be born for years. I had a lot of friends in the theater departments of other high schools, because theater kids tended to know one another and stick together.

I was visiting my sister at her apartment. I went out to the pool by myself; she was doing something, and was supposed to come join me as soon as she finished whatever it was. The pool was empty, which was great. I like to be alone.

Then, a kid that I knew appeared out of one of the apartments facing the pool. He seemed delighted to find me there. I'd known him for about a year and a half. He'd never spent time with me alone, never given me his number or asked for mine, never invited me over, even in a group, never treated me any differently than you'd treat a distant relative that you saw every few months (definitely friendly, but not seeking you out), but suddenly he was acting like he was my best buddy, and he'd missed me so much since the last time we saw each other. "Do you live here?" he wanted to know; then, "Which apartment is your sister's?" ("Um - I forget the number. (That was a lie.) It's over there" - wave of my hand in a westerly direction.) He asked me to a party at his apartment that night - asked repeatedly and rather forcefully, when I responded with a vague, "I dunno. Maybe."

I did not feel pretty. I did not feel desirable. I did not feel noticed or wanted. Maybe I was too hard on the guy, but the only way that I could interpret this behavior, this change in established behavior, was, "I, myself, am a fan of breasts, and I couldn't help but notice that you possess some."

I did not attend his party. I did not take him up on the "call me sometime" invitation. I fled the pool.

If you would have asked people who knew me what my best physical feature was, the answer would be divided along gender lines. Most girls would have said it was my hair, long, thick and wavy. (It started to fall out - or at least, I started to notice - when I was 16. It's been less impressive ever since.) Guys, I think, would have said my breasts. They were larger than most other girls' breasts, and kind of obvious. Plus, teenagers are hormonal. I knew that people noticed, but that's a far cry from feeling pretty. I was the girl with the "great personality."

This is my favorite photo of myself from high school. It's not exactly "me," though, even though those are my clothes, on my body. This is Gwendolyn, a character I played as a high school junior.

I'd been acting for five years at the time, and it was the first time I'd ever been given a role that had a smidgen of sex appeal. I was always cast as the spinster aunt, grandmother, or mother. That's kind of ironic, when you think about it; how do women become mothers if they're lifelong celibates? Still, mothers were not sexy or attractive in any way. Gwendolyn may not have been outright sexy, but she was somebody's date, and that was new for me. Having a director decide that I was capable of portraying that was new and unexpected and wholly delightful. (Thanks, Andy.)

I was grateful for the role, and I worked hard at it. I felt capable of projecting the idea that someone would find me desirable. In one scene, I walked into a poker game, and the poker players were supposed to gape at me. They were all my friends, we were all in character, so it was fine. I got comfortable with the scene. When we started working in costume, though, one of the guys continued to look at me as though I was a steak dinner and it was two hours past his dinnertime, even after the director called "cut" and stopped the scene to iron out problems. That was deeply unnerving. Not because I didn't like him - I did; we were very close. I just didn't know what to do, how to react, how to be someone's steak dinner. Gwendolyn could, but I couldn't. I was glad when I got to put my regular clothes back on and be myself.

When this photo was taken, I liked it, but all I could see were "flaws." My stomach is rounded, and I have round "saddlebags" at the top of my thighs, even in control top pantyhose. My eyelids droop. My chin recedes. It took years to be able to say, "Flaws are OK. A person can have flaws and be pretty." Still, I did not personally feel pretty.

I did not date in high school. I was actually asked out only once, when I was too young to date. Nobody else bothered. I was not gorgeous, I was not promiscuous, and I was therefore off the radar.

Very occasionally, I would recognize flirtation. A bisexual girlfriend once said, "Look, if you're ever curious or bored and you just want to know how the other half lives, call me." I actually found the straightforwardness of that to be very sweet; no code words to decipher, no pity, no game playing, just a sincere offer. If, indeed, I wanted to date women, she would have made a lovely and considerate partner. I just wasn't interested.

Knowing that she meant it was nice, though. It was, and is, important to me to feel attractive and desirable. I just never thought that "pretty" was a prerequisite. Plenty of people are deeply attractive and very desirable without being lovely to look at. It's a whole "different ball of wax," as the saying goes.

I was about to list certain actors to illustrate my point, but that would be rude. "Look at (Name Censored). He's hideous physically, but he's still incredibly attractive." Instead I'll try to explain what I find "attractive." To me, it means, "This person possesses qualities that make me want to spend time around them." "Desirable" is close, but more specifically romantically oriented - "This person would be a great partner."

What's attractive? Talent. Oh, good heavens, talent. If you're good at anything - performing, writing, building, programming, gardening, I don't care what - it's swoonworthy and deeply attractive. There are a few plain to ugly men that I would have no trouble at all casting or watching as Prince Charming, because I would totally buy it. I would be convinced that they were both royal and The Perfect Man for the princess. Talent also tends to increase my estimate of your physical features. I may have once thought you were plain, but then I saw what you're capable of, and now you look lovely indeed.

If I was ever to be a groupie of any kind, or if I was ever to decide to be promiscuous, fame, status and money would not interest me at all. Talent would.

Any quality that you'd list if asked, "What makes a good friend?" is attractive. Sense of humor, fun to be around, honest, supportive, spiritual, trustworthy, brave, hard working - all attractive.

Loyalty tops the list of what makes you desirable. I have no interest in, or time for, people who can't handle monogamy. Don't waste my time. All the above qualities help, too. "Desirable" speaks to the long term.

Occasionally, it would seem that someone found me to be either attractive or desirable, even though I was not pretty. I think that's as it should be.

One of my best friends said to me, when I was roughly 18, "If no one else ever marries you, I will." We were in a group at the time, and I gave him major grief for the awkward wording of that compliment.

"Oh, gee, every girl wants to hear that. I feel warm and fuzzy all over now."

"No! No! I meant it! I just mean, well, you'd make a good wife."

I ribbed him pretty hard, which wasn't very nice of me. Chalk it up to teenage angst. At the time, though, and more and more as I got older, I knew that his actual sentiment looked something like, "I've noticed that you're good wife material. I'd be happy living with you." I'll take that compliment. I'd much rather have that than be pretty.

There was one time when I was growing up that I felt not only attractive and desirable, but cherished. I was comfortable being affectionate with my friends, but there are levels of physical affection. Some are fine no matter your age, gender, marital status or familial ties. Some are a little more exclusive. Some are romantically motivated - those can get iffy. Some just say, "I like you," some say, "I love you," and some carry other messages.

Most romantically motivated affection, at least when you're young, is geared around what you, personally, want. You want to behave in a certain way because you enjoy it, or because you think that it will lead to things that you enjoy. It's rarer to do something just because you know that the other person would enjoy it. (Are you rubbing her feet because you have a foot fetish, or because you know that she enjoys it? Are you happy with just her gratitude, or do you hope that she'll express that gratitude by doing something for you that you enjoy?)

Someone expressed physical affection toward me in a way that probably carried no reward for him. It doesn't come with bragging rights or rank anywhere on the "bases" list. Yet he did it not only unprompted, but willingly. It also carried the message, "I am so lucky to be here, with you." It was - delightful. Sometimes, when I need a pleasant memory, I call that one up. If I'd known how rare those moments are, I would have enjoyed it even more.

It took a long time for me to learn how and when to express any interest in someone. People asked me, when I was a teen and long afterward, "Why didn't you take the initiative and ask someone out?" My usual answer was, "If they wanted to go out with me, they would have asked." I was not about to put some guy on the spot, and risk either a pity date or rejection.

The first time I chose to make a pass at someone, it was someone who'd already kissed me in a non-platonic fashion. That made it safe, I hoped - I had no wish to have him be horrified.

I don't think he was horrified, but he said, "I think we should stop." Ouch. It wasn't any behavior that was morally objectionable. Neither of us was cheating on someone or touching forbidden places or undressing. Man, rejection stings. It was very painful. Everyone has to learn how to deal with it, but it doesn't make that first time any easier. Or, any subsequent time.

I never want to date again. I am not just the marrying type, I am the married type.

Which is good. I've spent more time married than I spent single. I intend to stay that way.

Sometimes, though, I still wonder about being pretty.

One friend told me that it's tedious and predictable. Another told me that it's a great tool for getting what you want. Another said that it means constant fear that you'll lose it.

I don't know. So, I wonder. Not that it matters.

And there's life in that Martian colony to consider.

Backwards

I think that I have some sort of Benjamin Button thing happening. Heaven knows that I'm not looking any younger, and I've never felt young, but I seem to be experiencing a lot of things backwards.

As a kid and a teen, I deeply resented the stereotype that kids felt immortal and invincible. I never felt either. I was always the kid saying, "But someone could get hurt!" I was not a risk taker or a thrill seeker. I was acutely aware that death, dismemberment, pain or scarring were very real possibilities. I worried, I fretted, I avoided risk and danger as best I could. I've never "bailed out" of swings or jumped off of a diving board. (Really.)

Describing my behavior as a child to my middle daughter recently elicited The Look and the verdict, "So you were a wet blanket." The wettest, thank you very much.

Said child, in contrast, had no fear as a child. None. I remember clearly having to repeatedly grab the back of her swimsuit and haul her into the shallows at age 2, because she'd just keep walking into the water, even after it was over her head. Not just once, mind you, but over and over. It never occurred to her, in any situation, that she might get hurt or experience an unpleasant outcome. She looked at people as though they were crazy or unintelligible if they warned her. When she did get hurt, she brushed it off like Monty Python's Black Knight - "It's only a flesh wound."

It wasn't until her 20s that it started occurring to her that she might get hurt, and that hurt was bad. Facing situations that she'd never given a second thought to suddenly had her realizing, "Someone could get hurt." Slowly, she noticed that situations caused her worry, and that she was being more cautious.

"This is how the other half lives," I told her. "Welcome to adulthood."

"I hate it! How do people function like this?" she wanted to know.

I, on the other hand, am slowly growing into feelings of invincibility.

More and more, I find myself mentally spreading my arms and saying, "Bring it on. I've got this." Fear of water? I'll go in a submarine, and then across the Atlantic on a ship. Fear of being disliked? Recently I ran into a kid I'd gone to high school with, a kid who was so much cooler than I was that I spent all of high school awed and intimidated. I may have spoken three sentences to this kid during the entire four years we went to school together. Now that I'm much older, twice my high school weight and going gray (and, unfortunately, bald), what did I do? Run up and say hello, then hug him/her.

Kids are supposed to be the dreamy ones, too, setting ridiculous life goals like, "marry a prince." I was such a practical kid. My goals were things like, "be able to afford groceries." I was clear that I could choose any one of hundreds of paths through life, could be a doctor or teacher or lawyer or painter - but I never imagined, or wanted, the usual things kids covet: obscene wealth, fame, privilege. I still don't, but now I see no barriers to pie-in-the-sky plans. If somebody had told me when I was 18 that they wanted to be something ridiculous and impractical, I would have given them the "It's really difficult to make it" speech, and meant it. Now, I'd give them the "Go for it!" speech, and mean it. Sure, it takes hard work and more than a little luck, but it's not impossible. Knock 'em dead, kid. You can do it.

As a kid, I was easy to psych out or intimidate. I know that there were times that I lost competitions just because I let the other guy(s) get to me. Not any more.

Children are supposed to be trusting; I had severe trust issues. OK, I still have some, and there's good reasons for them, but I no longer feel that I have to do everything, or that something is doomed to failure if multiple people have multiple jobs to do. I only have to do my job, my little part, and not worry, or even necessarily think about, anyone else's job. (Sometimes you carry The One Ring and sometimes you kill the Orcs - am I right?)

I never was young, and I never will be, but that's OK. I may have the best of both worlds.

Duchess

I was probably about seven years old when a visitor asked my mother something that puzzled me. She watched our dog Duchess, and said to my mother, warily, "Don't you worry about her?" At first I thought the "her" was directed at me, and wondered what the woman didn't like about me, but then she said something about "allowing her in the house," and it became clear that she meant the dog.

"Oh, no, not at all," said my mother.

"Even around the children?" the woman asked.

"She's great with kids," Mom said.

After the woman left, I asked my mom, "Why would she be worried about Dutchy?" I'd been trying to make sense of it myself, but I couldn't figure it out. It made even less sense to me because we had two big dogs, but the woman had only seemed worried about one.

"Some people are that way. They worry about the coyote in her," Mom explained.

Duchess was a bit older than I was. I don't remember her as a puppy, but I knew the story. A friend of my parents had a German shepherd female who'd been impregnated by a coyote while out in their yard. When the litter was born, the owners worried that no one would want the little "halfbreeds," and they planned to drown them. Back then, that was considered the humane and responsible thing to do with unwanted puppies and kittens; put them in a bag or pillowcase, weight it down, and toss it into the river. My parents couldn't bear to see them all drown, and had requested a puppy for their family. They got "the pick of the litter" - the smartest, cutest, liveliest puppy - and named her Duchess. She went home to the horses and children on our acre plus.

We usually described her as a German shepherd; not because we were embarrassed, or afraid of an adverse reaction, but for the same reason we didn't usually use the words "step" or "half" in describing relationships in our family. Default to the simplest explanation. If people asked, though - and often, someone would say, "And what else?" or, "She doesn't look like a shepherd" - we'd tell them about the coyote half. I never expected anyone to worry, or even be too terribly surprised. It seemed very normal to me.

We later added another dog, my dad's black lab named Ebony. He was younger than Dutchy, and I remember him a puppy, an energetic ball of pitch black fur. He was my dad's hunting dog, a retriever; Dad said he was great at it. He was sweet and lovable, but not very bright. He also spent less time in the house than Duchess did, because he had a tendency to get overexcited and trash things. Even at 80 lbs., he also fancied himself a lap dog, and he'd sit in our laps even when he was clearly larger than we were.

Duchess was clearly the Alpha. Ebony adored her. She was our companion and watchdog.

We have few photos of her. My parents took very few photos - back in the days of film, it often took them years to fill up a roll of 12 exposures -  and neither of them was particularly gifted with a camera.

This photo was taken on Easter, the year I was 3. I remember that holiday. It was the first time that I understood that there was something special about the day. I loved my fancy new dress, even though it was kind of scratchy. I loved my Easter basket and cute candy.

We were getting ready to leave the house for church. Moments before this was taken, I'd been hugging Dutchy. My sister Lynne, the brunette beauty in pink, had scolded me for "getting dog hair all over your pretty dress," and encouraged me to pat with my hand. I wanted to please Lynne - I adored her. I could not figure out what she was thinking, though. I always hugged the dog. What was wrong with dog hair, anyway? And why was it OK to have it on my everyday clothes, but not on my new dress? Maybe my new dress wasn't as much fun to wear as I thought it would be. How much could you really enjoy a dress if you couldn't hug the dog while wearing it?

Look at the tolerant look on Duchess's face. She let me hug her and lay my head on her side. She listened to everything we said, accepting all the mushiness: "Who's a good girl? There's our good Dutchy-dog!"

She understood every word we uttered, I swear. If she'd had opposable thumbs, we could have said something like, "Could you drive down to the store and bring back some eggs and bread, please?" and she would have done it. For most dogs (and small children), you have to issue short, crisp commands - "Sit. Stay." We spoke to Duchess conversationally; we'd say something like, "You sit down here and wait for me, OK? I'll be right back." She'd sit down, wait, and trot off by your side as soon as you reappeared.

My dad trained the dogs to respond to certain whistle commands. The one that meant "Come here" was 4 short, one long, and then an undulating, "ooooo-weeee-oooooo-weeee-oooooo" sound. Sometimes Dutchy would take off from our yard to do something I think of as "going walkabout." There was a lot of open land around us, and she just wanted to go out and explore. She could sail over our backyard fence like it wasn't even there, much to Ebony's dismay. Sometimes, she'd just disappear. When we wanted her home, someone would go out on the back porch and whistle. She'd come trotting home a few minutes later. If she'd gone really far, we might have to wait a few minutes and whistle again, but I don't think it ever took more than 3 whistles.

Her obedience had only one loophole. If she was staring at a cat, you had to issue the command, "Dutchy, you leave that kitty cat alone!" before she started to run. She hated cats with a fervor my mother termed "a purple passion," and she'd perk up and go on alert if she saw one. Any of us could give her the command to "leave that kitty cat alone" and she would, without fail, provided she wasn't running yet. Once she took off, she wouldn't back off for God himself.

To my knowledge, she only caught one once, and held its face down in a puddle, with it clawing her leg to shreds, until it drowned. My dad tried to drag her away, to no avail. As my parents cleaned and wrapped her leg afterward, they scolded her. She looked at them as if to say, "I understand that you're upset, but it was the devil."

When our family adopted first one cat, and then more, she tolerated them only because they were ours. She never chased or harassed them, never so much as barked or growled, but she glared at them. "You be nice to that kitty cat," we'd say, and you could tell that she was thinking, "I am."

I only recall her chasing one other animal, and that ended badly. We were camping with my extended family, aunts, uncles and cousins, and Duchess decided to chase a porcupine. I had to be only 3 or 4, because I remember that the solid part of the cabin's screen door came up to my chest. I stood on my toes listening to an unfamiliar wailing and howling, and watched as my dad and cousins half dragged, half carried a howling Duchess to the ranger station. Her face bristled with quills. After the ranger and my dad pulled all the quills with pliers, and slathered disinfectant on her, she came back to the cabin. She was subdued and raw. I fussed over her, horrified by all the puncture wounds under the ointment. I don't think she ever forgot that lesson. (Who knows, though - she chased another porcupine years later.)

She barked only to alert us to perceived danger. (Thank heaven she didn't consider knocks on the door to be threats. I can't stand it when dogs bark at the door.) I heard her growl only once.

We had a wishing well in our front yard. We'd occasionally toss pennies, and sometimes, larger coins, in,  making wishes. We didn't take the coins out, because that would negate the wish, but I don't think there was ever more than $2 or $3 in the well.

Still, some neighborhood boys once decided that they'd help themselves to the coins. I was probably 9 or 10, and they struck me as about 13. There were four or five of them, ignoring me as I shouted at them to get out of our yard and leave our stuff alone. I was just inside the wire backyard fence, about 15 feet away. They ignored me as an impotent, whiny kid.

Duchess sat quietly by my side, simply observing. Finally, hoping to scare them, I issued a command that, to my knowledge, she had never heard: "Sic 'em, Dutchy."

She went over the fence so fast that she seemed to have levitated. In less than a second, she'd grabbed the most vocal and obnoxious of the boys by the seat of his pants, and shook him back and forth, growling a deep, menacing growl. The other boys scattered as this boy shouted, "Call off your dog! Call off your dog!" Duchess shook him hard, and I stared, open mouthed, until his pants started to rip. I called, "Dutchy! Come here," and she instantly let go, stopped growling, and trotted back. She jumped over the fence and resumed sitting placidly next to me.

As I watched the boy pedal away on his bike, I imagined (with some glee) him trying to explain the ripped pants to his parents, and I rubbed Duchess's ears. "Good girl! You are such a good girl!"

I later told my mother, and she chuckled. "I didn't even know that Dutchy knew what 'sic 'em' means!" I said.

"She probably doesn't. But, she knew they were bad news. She was just waiting for you to ask her to do something."

I was in junior high when Duchess started showing signs of aging. First, her fur started showing gray. Then, she got arthritis, which was painful to watch. We started taking her food to her, instead of calling her to it. Then, she started losing weight. By the time this was taken, when I was about 12 and she was about 14, she wasn't looking, or feeling, like herself.

She finally developed some sort of cancer. I can't remember if we had her put to sleep, or if she passed away on her own. I know that, by the time she was gone, I was happy for her to be out of pain.

I often imagine that she was one of the first loved ones to greet my parents, after they passed away. I'm pretty sure that she loves heaven.

I think she may have learned to like cats.

Sam

Everyone remembers their first love. Mine was Sam. He was eight years older than I was, big and a little clumsy and slow. Recent experience had left him empty inside, but he still had a lot to give.

Sam was a 1973 Volkswagen van, painted yellow and white. My dad bought him with a stripped out interior - no seats, not even any carpet - intending to convert him into a camper. I was 15 years old. Dad already owned a pickup truck, and Mom owned a sedan, so when I started driving, I ended up driving the van instead of taking a car that my parents were using.

I was totally prepared to hate the van, and I drove it only under protest. I'd been in love with Volkswagen Beetles since I was a kid, having first loved Herbie the Love Bug, and later, my adored big sister's car. I wanted a white Bug with a blue and green interior; I'd been fantasizing about it for years. I had all of $200 in the bank, and no job, though, so that wasn't happening any time soon.

I resented driving the van. It wasn't cute, it wasn't popular - it was kind of embarrassing. I'd tell everyone, "This is my dad's car."

Then, slowly, the van started to grow on me. Dad got a carpet remnant from somewhere, and we put it over the formerly bare floor. I found a $20 wicker loveseat, a yellow beanbag, and a chair made from an old barrel for seating. This was years before mandatory seat belt laws, so my decor was legal.

It turns out that being able to jam a dozen or so of your teenage friends into the back of a van is handy and fun, when you're a teenager.

My friends found names for the van; the Beatles fans called it The Yellow Submarine. The Who fans called it The Magic Bus. Still, I thought that he - I was sure the van was male - needed a proper, given name.

Every once in a while - about once a year - our drama guild organized a Kidnap Breakfast. We'd designate a few drivers, then phone everyone else's parents to ask that they leave their doors unlocked, or wake up at 3 a.m., so that we could drag their kids out of bed and take them to breakfast in their pajamas.

The van was great for this task, since we could stack people like cord wood. One early morning, my friend Guy and I set out on our assigned route of kidnap victims. Rather, we tried to set out; the van hated cold weather, and it was plenty cold in the small, dark hours of the morning.

After repeated attempts at starting the engine, I decided that we'd have to just sit there until it warmed up a degree or two. Making conversation, I turned to Guy and said, "The van needs a name. What should I call him?"

We were working on the play Wait Until Dark at school, and Guy's character was named Sam. "How about Sam?" he said.

Sam! I knew immediately that we'd found the right name. He was Sam from then on.

I was soon deeply in love with Sam. He was slow, and unwieldy, and he hated cold and the wind - not only did even small gusts blow him sideways on the road, but you could hear the thin sheet metal ripple in high winds. He held up to 15 of my friends at a time. He was perfect for me.

The fastest we ever got him up to was 65 MPH, downhill, with my friend Rich driving. (I have never been a speed demon.) We loved taking him up to Tahoe, but on the steep, mountain roads, he'd slow to a 35 MPH crawl; I'd turn on the hazard lights and wave people past. He did not corner well; the only time anyone ever tipped him up on two wheels, my sister was taking him through a sharp(ish) corner. I no longer found any of his flaws uncool. I loved everything about him.

We once took him backwards through a McDonald's drive through window. We took him to Pyramid Lake, and frequently loaded him up for movie nights. We once drove next to my friends Mike and Scott while they jogged and the rest of us hummed the theme from Rocky through the open sliding door.

Sometimes, my mom would refer to him in feminine pronouns - "Could you park her around back?"

"Mom! He's a Samuel, not a Samantha," I'd say. Mom, though, was sure (as is my husband) that all automobiles are female. Nonsensically, I'd argue, "They can't all be girls!"

For my 18th birthday, my brother in law acid etched comedy/tragedy masks onto his windows, in the bottom left corner of Sam's windshield and both side windows. They were gorgeous.

I further decorated the interior, with a bean bag checkerboard-topped table, an old-time photo taken of a dozen of us at the state fair, a teddy bear rug and cartoons that said things like, "It's a little more than carpooling. We call it van stuffing."

When I started dating my husband, we took Sam to the drive in movie, and watched from the wicker couch, through the open slider. (We froze.) I was pregnant with my second child when my husband and I sold Sam. We needed to - we couldn't afford to install real seats in back, and we couldn't buckle infant car seats into the wicker. Still, I missed him terribly.

I've been thinking a lot about Sam this week. Volkswagen has announced that it will no longer manufacture the VW van after this year's limited edition. I can't believe how blue this makes me. I can't believe that they're only available in Brazil. I can't believe that I can't afford one.

Looking through the auto sales supplement to the paper recently, we found a 1973 yellow and white VW van. "Is it Sam? Can you tell from the photos?" If I had a spare $3000, I would totally buy this impractical used car, whether it's Sam or not.

My son sighed. "Mom, you are such a hippie."

He's not the first person to accuse me of this. In fact, it's such a common occurrence that I developed a stock answer years ago: "If there are sober, monogamous hippies, then you bet I am."

A girl and her van: it's a beautiful thing.

Are We There Yet?

Two things prompt me to share this essay now, even though I wrote it years ago. One, I just returned from a great trip to visit my oldest child and her husband.

Two, I spent a great deal of time on the phone today with a frazzled Expedia customer service rep who was rebooking the trip we have planned, in several months, to celebrate my husband's 50th birthday and my brother's 60th birthday. We're all headed to Hawaii, somewhere my brother's never been. We researched this trip for over a year, watched prices fairly obsessively, squirreled away money and finally booked a few weeks ago. We booked at a golf resort on Oahu's leeward shore, not because we love golf (none of us play) but because it had a great price on what we wanted - mini suites with kitchenettes. Apparently those great prices were their last ditch effort to stay afloat, because they just declared bankruptcy. They'll be closing in a month, displacing hundreds of holiday travelers and those like us who are leaving months after the holidays.

"Thank you so much for having a sense of humor and being patient!" the Expedia rep said to me. "I've been on the phone with angry people all day." No sense in getting angry here. Hey, even though the new booking would have originally cost us more, they're changing our reservation for free because we already booked and paid. Plus, we're going to Hawaii! How bad can it be?

(Note to self and others - I've never dealt with Expedia customer service before, but based on this experience, I highly recommend them.)

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I believe firmly in the value of travel. My parents had very little discretionary income – truth be told, they had little income to cover a lot of necessities. Yet, we took a family vacation every year, and more day trips than I can count. It was just part of the fabric of life.

I can only remember staying in a motel twice. We may have done so more than that, but it was extremely rare. We stayed with relatives, or we camped. I could spot a KOA Kampground sign from miles away, even before I could read. I went on an airplane for the first time at seventeen; we always drove wherever we were going. (Airplanes were for rich people.) When we could, we picnicked instead of eating at restaurants. And yet, we covered thousands of miles. We visited volcanoes, geysers, the ocean, the redwoods. We saw moose, elk, antelope, buffalo and bears. We swam, fished, hiked, climbed, and spent time just sitting in patio chairs.

When I was the only child left at home, and a teenager besides, family vacations seemed less relevant. Still, I went to Disneyland with my friends two years in a row, with my mom along as a chaperone. I spent a week with my dad and my cousin in her cabin. There were still day trips with my family, but now there were day trips with friends as well. We once drove to a neighboring city just to eat at a particular Japanese restaurant. I've never had wanderlust in the sense of having to constantly change dwellings and/or jobs, but if I spend too long without getting out of town at all, I get antsy and grumpy.

After growing up and getting married, Dan and I took our first family vacation when our oldest child was eight months old. (We'd been married for about a year and a half.) It took a bit of talking to convince my husband that it was a good idea; he was much less sold on the idea of yearly vacations (or, really, any vacations) than I was. We stayed with my sister in Orange County, and spent a day at Disneyland as just a couple while my sister babysat. Suddenly, Dan felt better about vacations. Since then, we've made sure to take a trip every year, and occasionally more.

I sat once, years ago, around a table with a group discussing a mutual friend and her post retirement travels. She and her husband, it seemed, spent more time away from home than they did in their own house. Their latest trip had taken them to Europe. We were all quite jealous. Then someone said something that demonstrated a sharp divide between my opinion and that held by the rest of the group.

"Well," she said, "I guess you can go all those places if you don't care what kind of hotel you stay in. I mean, they'll stay in discount motels."

Another woman agreed. "And they'll fly coach. All the way across the ocean!"

"They don't eat fancy food, either. They'll just pick up something simple in a pub."

"Sure, you can go anywhere, I guess, if you're willing to put up with that."

Then the fantasizing started. "If I were to go, I'd want five star everything – hotels, restaurants. I'd want first class plane tickets; you know, where they give you hot towels and eye masks and even foot massages."

The conversation went on while I sat amazed, wondering if they'd noticed that I was no longer saying anything. The thing that truly amazed me was that these were people who not only did not take five star vacations, they didn't normally take any. I'd known them for years; they were not travelers. I sat thinking, if the choice is between motels and pub food and not going anywhere, the choice is easy for me. Bring on Motel 6!

I've stayed in lovely resorts with helpful concierges and free group activities. I don't have the money or inclination to go five star, but I do know the difference between those properties and some others I've stayed in, like the motel made from mobile homes, whose pool was a Doughboy. Still, to me a room is a place to sleep, shower and dress. As long as it's clean and I can sleep, I'm happy. The reason I'm there has nothing to do with the hotel I'm in.

I don't even need a great view. I'll be leaving it all day anyway, and it doesn't do me much good when I'm asleep. I was glad my oldest daughter shared this opinion when she went on her high school graduation trip. She and her two best friends spent a week in Hawaii, and out of necessity they booked an inexpensive room in a high rise hotel. They took gleeful photos of each other standing in front of their windows, indicating the view – a multi level parking garage, so close to the cars that they could see make, model and plate number. They didn't care. They were 18 years old and in Hawaii without parents! They went snorkeling and to luaus, but because they were teenagers, they didn't have endless funds. Lana, my daughter, spoke fondly of buying 99 cent fruit and yogurt parfaits from a fast food restaurant, and then eating them on Waikiki Beach, feeling on top of the world.

Our four children had a great time on our various travels when they were growing up, but they're also kids. We listened to hours of complaining and bickering. "We'll be in the car for how many hours? I hate the car! I'll be so-o-o-o bored!" Siblings who were barely civil to each other when they shared a room were often thrown into the same bed, resulting in a recitation at breakfast of who kicked whom, who stole the covers, who snored and who hogged the bed.

For our first trip to Hawaii, we had to drive for four hours to the airport, then spend approximately six hours on a plane. The older two complained so long and so loudly about the travel time that we finally threatened to leave them at home with Grandma, as they were clearly missing the point. They grudgingly agreed that maybe they could stop complaining long enough to get to Hawaii.

Once we got there, we also listened to our ten year old complain that we didn't spend enough time at the hotel pool. "We're always leaving the hotel to go somewhere!" she groused. I finally had to say, "We did not spend thousands of dollars and come thousands of miles to the most remote pieces of land on the planet simply to stay in our hotel! There are swimming pools at home."

Every parent would also recognize our battles about what they could and could not buy, and where we could and couldn't go. Children who used the bathroom twice a day at home suddenly needed us to stop the car every hour so they could use gas station restrooms. We endured complaints about the food, the weather, the scenery and everything else.

It took years before we knew that, despite all that, they actually did get something out of the long drives and shared beds. When Lana went hundreds of miles away to college, she met kids from all over, kids with a variety of backgrounds. She found one fact about her new friend Sarah very odd. "Mom," she told me over the phone, "can you believe that she's never been anywhere? She's been in her hometown and here at school! That's it! We have to plan a girlfriend trip and take her somewhere!"

Growing Up Is Hard To Do

My youngest daughter was asked to speak in church last weekend. I think she did a great job. She took a great deal of her talk from published sources, so she did a lot of reading quotes instead of presenting her own take on the subject, but why reinvent the wheel? If you find a source who says it eloquently, quote them. She was poised, spoke clearly and, like the actress that she is, knew what and how to emphasize.

Afterwards, someone who frequently sees her in her class at church said to me, "She does a much better job reading things she's familiar with instead of reading straight from the scriptures. She ought to read her scriptures out loud more often." Well, everyone should probably read their scriptures more, but that's another subject. When she's asked to read a scripture passage aloud in class, she stumbles and fumbles and stutters and asks for help. I smiled and nodded; every parent spends time doing that when listening to others describe their kid(s). You see, when asked to read a scripture out loud at home, or even in a class I'm in, she does it beautifully, handling even the foot long Hebrew names better than many adults. When her parents aren't around, though, you'd swear she was a struggling reader who'd never even seen a Bible.

It took me back to watching her oldest sister give a talk in the children's meeting at church. She'd chosen to read a story out of a church magazine. She couldn't have been any older than seven, because we moved to a different town the summer after she completed first grade. Again, practicing this story at home, she sounded great. Once she got to church, she sounded borderline illiterate.

Most of the time when a child read something aloud during these meetings, one of the leaders (or a parent) would stand next to them and whisper the words in their ears, and they'd repeat it into the microphone. This was especially true with the younger children, who weren't confident readers yet. I knew my child, and knew she didn't need me.

I watched her hesitate and mumble for a few sentences, then stood up and whispered in her ear, "You can do it." It was like flipping a switch. Suddenly her reading was smooth, clear, precise. She had no trouble with any of the pronunciations, understood the punctuation, and sounded like a child years older than she was. Afterward, all the leaders and teachers swooned over her, telling her what a great job she did. Instead of basking in the praise, she stared at the floor and fidgeted.

One of the leaders said to me, "Sometimes all it takes to shine is to hear that your parents have confidence in you." Again, I smiled and nodded. This was most certainly not how this daughter viewed things.

She was furious with me. I had caused her to stand out, to look DIFFERENT than the other kids, in public, and that was unforgivable. Especially at that age, in kindergarten and first grade, we had lots of discussions that began with her saying, "Everybody else..." She HATED the fact that she stood out. She had insisted that instead of the beautiful coloring she did at home, "In school, you're SUPPOSED to scribble. Everybody does." The same went for any other skill; it fell on deaf ears to tell her that the other kids were doing the best they could, and she should do the best SHE could. "It should all be THE SAME," she would insist.

She was also angry because I had deprived her of the attention of the leaders, the one on one of having somebody focus on just her instead of on a large group of kids. She didn't see that with all the praise she was getting, she was getting more attention, positive attention, and that it came from every adult in the room, not just one. She wanted the leader standing next to her, whispering in her ear. Plus, I had made her stand out as different, and that was just wrong.

My middle daughter has always had a severe case of Middle Child Syndrome, never feeling quite as though she got as much attention, recognition, praise or whatever else as she wanted. She frequently voiced the opinion that, "Things are only special when the oldest and the youngest do them." Even though we insisted that accomplishments were special whenever anyone achieved them, she'd roll her eyes and tell us we were wrong.

My son is happiest sitting quietly in the back of a classroom, being unnoticed. He does not like to be singled out. He blows most praise, from any source, off; he's such a total perfectionist that he doesn't think that much is praiseworthy. (He constantly tells me that people's standards are too low. Every now and then, he'll look at what the average person can do as compared to what he's done and announce, "People are idiots!" I try to convince him otherwise, but am frequently thwarted by 1. people who are idiots and 2. his conviction that my standards are too low.) He has made an armchair diagnosis of his little sister - "narcissistic personality disorder."

Ah, my youngest; she deeply craves attention. Mostly, she wants people to think that she's adorable. Somewhere in both her conscious and unconscious mind, she remembers when people found her mere existence adorable. As the youngest, she noticed that when we were out in public, when people swooned over any of the children it was over her, the baby. Everything she said, did and was had adoration heaped on it by the ton. Every baby experiences this.

When my nephew Jeremy was nine, he asked one day, "Aunt Sherrie? How come everybody just loves babies, but once you get older nobody cares?" At that point, he was watching the phenomenon from the opposite perspective; he was the oldest child in our household of five children. It was my son, the baby, who was receiving the swooning and adoration at that point. We'd be out in public with all five kids, little blond stair steps, and all people would see was, "Oh, look at that baby! He's so cute!" Sure, he was adorable, but so were the big kids.

I explained my belief: "I think it's because babies are all potential, so people can imagine them as anything they want. They've never disagreed with someone, or done anything that would offend them. People look at a baby and imagine the very best of everything. Plus, it's just hardwired into people to love babies - otherwise, they'd never be willing to deal with all the work and exhaustion and sacrifice of caring for a completely helpless, tiny person. It's a survival of the human race thing."

I don't know if it helped Jeremy, but I think it was a good explanation.

My youngest simply knows that it used to be an absolute given that her place in the universe was 1. at its center and 2. surrounded by adoring subjects. When she hit about seven years old, she noticed that it was no longer a given that she was darling. People did not automatically swoon over her mere presence or existence. She became convinced that it was because she wasn't cute enough any more. I remember watching her get her Girl Scout cookie order form one year and sighing, "I won't sell as many cookies this year. I used to be cuter." Half of her life has been a pre-adolescent version of the midlife crisis.

She recently had to move up from the children's organization at church to the youth organization. She was not thrilled. She insisted, frequently and loudly, that getting older meant, "I'll be BORING!" ("Boring," by the way, is worse than death.) She tries in vain to recapture what it felt like to be three and precocious. Most kids her age exult in leaving behind the little kids; she is sure that if she's surrounded by younger children, she'll be cute by association. She's warming up to the whole youth group thing, which is good. I suspect a lot of that has to do with great leaders and other youth, but a lot has to do with being the youngest one in the group. That is her comfort zone.

Her older siblings watch her exhibit some immature behavior and cringe. "Why does she DO that?" they ask. I remind them all that they did immature things when they were younger. Frequently they say things like, "Yes, but I was stupid," or "I have no idea what I was thinking." Well, OK, I tell them, it's the same for her. Eventually she'll "get" it.

"Can you get her to stop that?" they ask. They do not like the answer - "No, I can't." A couple of days ago I asked her older sister, "Did you listen to me all the time, and do what I told you to without question?" She snorted at the ridiculousness of this.

"NO!!"

"Well, neither does she."

I have to admit, I have more patience than I otherwise would because I do have older kids. They're adults now, delightful adults, so I know that no phase lasts forever. This too shall pass. If I didn't know that, sometimes being a parent and saying things for the 1,849th time, this week alone, would drive me literally insane.

Eventually, my "baby" will discover that we have a culture in which teens are considered the height of attractiveness. She will, I hope, be delighted to be a teen. She will discover that growing up means more freedom, more choices, not being boring.

Oh please, oh please.

I'll settle for anything that is progress toward age appropriateness, and pride in getting there, and worry about how she'll eventually deal with the loss of youth, the youth she now does not want, when we get there.

Memory Lane

I recently got to talk to a woman who grew up in the same neighborhood as I did. Both of us are back in the neighborhood - Tiffany in her childhood home, me 2 1/2 blocks from where my mother still lives. I didn't realize how much I missed talking to someone who had the same memories, the same frame of reference. Even my siblings might not share all my memories, especially the ones 15 and 11 years older than I am.

When we were kids, the street that both my parents' property and Tiffany's butt up against was a dirt road. There was a white structure that we all called The Gate across the road two doors down from our house. It was a fence, not a gate, made out of heavy timbers painted white, with orange "safety" markings and a reflector or two. In the middle, there was a gap about 18 inches wide, so you could walk through it. I don't remember the reason that the city put up The Gate, but for years it effectively marked the dividing line through the neighborhood. I can remember when there was nothing but open space past it, space bisected by the dirt road and the irrigation ditch that ran parallel. Eventually both hit North Truckee Lane, another road that was dirt when I was small. Small ranches were the only residences along North Truckee Lane for a long time. On a corner I pass most days while driving my son to his 6:45 a.m. class, I remember watching the owners train their horses for the rodeo. Across the street and a bit south, there was a donkey that brayed loudly at us whenever we road our horses by. It was like passing a large, nasal barking dog. You could hear him protesting whatever it was that set him off even when you were half a mile or so past him. I rode double on our horse with my mother or my sister until I was three or four, when I could finally ride big, gentle Lady by myself.

Most of North Truckee Lane was swallowed up a few years later, about the time it was paved, by a road that now encircles our entire valley and the two cities in it.

Our house, the one I grew up in, and the one next to it - at one time the only homes on our street, back when it was a dirt road outside of town - were three bedroom, one bath houses. At one time, two bedroom one bath houses were standard. Ours and its "extra" bedroom were considered large for a time. (My husband grew up only a couple of miles away, in a neighborhood of two bed, one bath houses.) Then, when I was probably about six or seven, the city started building a new neighborhood on the opposite side of The Gate. These houses looked huge to us. Most of them were two story, an anomaly in itself at the time. They also had four bedrooms and two bathrooms. We snickered a bit about that; they just seemed so overdone. We referred to it as the rich people's neighborhood. Tiffany lived in one of those new houses.

I don't recall ever meeting her, although I do recall knowing two of her sisters when we were in our teens. I did know some of the kids from the far side of The Gate, but most of them were boys.

Even with new construction going in all the time, with the small ranches being sold to make way for subdivisions and paved roads, there was a lot of open space still around us on three sides when I was a kid. We lived in a chunk, several blocks square, that was considered "unincorporated county," even as we slowly became surrounded. We had over an acre, and about half of that was horse pasture. Our neighbors kept horses as well, until I was into my teens. A ditch flowed through the pasture from north to south. Our leg was unusual; a block to the north, it curved from a west to east flow to go south through our block. Just to the south of us, it turned back to a west-east route. Even with many houses nearby, we had large vacant areas.

I wasn't allowed near the ditch without a sibling to supervise me until I was eight, but even before then I was used to playing in vacant lots. After I turned eight, I spent even more time outside, since I could finally play at the water's edge, catching minnows or watching frogs. The back yard was nice, and huge, and I frequently caught garter snakes there, but the pasture offered both water and solitude.

The neighborhood kids built our own treehouse in the lot to the south of my house. It was a fairly ordinary thing to ask your parents for spare wood or nails, or just ask if you could rummage through the scrap pile. The tree we chose was a big apple tree close to a fence. We got permission from the man in the house behind the fence to nail our platform to his fence, and we put the platform about four feet up. We ran chicken wire around the bottom of the platform to enclose our downstairs "room," then hung fabric in front of the wire for privacy. We nailed steps straight into the tree. We had a casual rivalry with a group of kids from behind The Gate, and there was a lot of throwing of dirt clods and fallen apples. We loved our enclosed room, because they thought they were hitting us with their thrown objects, but they were hitting the chicken wire. We'd have snowball fights that took hours and ranged over the better part of a mile. We rode bikes down dirt roads and over small hills, our own bike jumps.

My walk home from elementary school could go along the streets, but it was quicker (and more fun) to go through a vacant lot to get to the ditch, then follow it down. There was a narrow trail worn next to the thick hybrid willows. In a few places, the bank rose several feet above the ditch, and the willows were so thick that you couldn't see the water. For most of the way, you walked between tall cedar fences and the willows. In at least 3 places that I knew of, the ditch flowed through pipes that took it under the street. There were frequently ducks and frogs around, a few misplaced balls or other toys, dropped pocket knives and the like, and sometimes you'd find something really odd. Once, a severed goat's head appeared in the water. Kids being kids, we gathered on either side of the ditch and poked it with sticks.

I think I'm part of the last generation whose parents felt safe just turning us loose like that. "Be home before dark" was a common admonition. Often on weekends and during the summer, kids would have breakfast, head out with instructions to return for lunch, then head out again after lunch knowing you had until sundown. I don't remember anyone being hurt beyond skinned knees or elbows. I never saw kids with cigarettes or alcohol pilfered from parents. Even in the privacy of our screened in room, nobody lit matches or got naked or anything else we would have considered "stupid." Even kids like me, who tended to be awkward or "goody-goody" or "slow" or any other trait that was different than "ideal" figured out how to interact because we had to. Running home to mom with a complaint was a good way to get made fun of or left out. I remember threatening to tell my mother something only once, when someone did something I thought was harmful; I don't remember what it was, but I have a vague idea that the mere threat was enough to quash it.

As Tiffany and I talked, I said, "Do you remember before they built the park?" I was practically giddy when she said, "Oh, I was so mad! They even cut down the tree with the swings!"

My current house backs onto the park. We love that we have a gate that goes straight to the park. This park, I'll admit, has grown on me in 30+ years. I, and my kids, have some good memories there. But there will always be a warm place in my heart for the vacant lot it used to be.

Despite the fact that there were many empty lots, this one was referred to be everyone as just The Lot - as in, "Mom, I'm gonna go play in The Lot." It was on Tiffany's side of The Gate, surrounded by two story houses on two sides. The other two sides face streets.

The west side, one of the long sides, faces a fairly quiet residential street. Back when it was just a vacant lot, I remember the street being closed to traffic when a certain amount of snow fell. There was a ridge all along the lot that made for great sledding, down the ridge, across the street and into the cul-de-sacs on the other side. Even in the summer, everyone referred to it as The Sledding Hill. After a good storm, there would be dozens of us dragging our sleds up the hill and sliding down the hill and across the street. A gully ran almost the length of the lot; the tree Tiffany referred to was in the gully. I think it was a cottonwood, and it was what my mom called "a volunteer." It grew simply because a seed landed, and the gully funneled enough water to the roots that it grew. Someone had hung a tire swing from it. Someone else had hung a simple rope with a knot at the end. I think there was a regular swing, too, made out of a slat of wood and rope.

When they built the park, they leveled most of the lot and tore out the tree. There's a few mounds that are supposed to look natural, but they're too short, too symmetrical, and on the wrong side of the lot, covered in lawn. Our collective indignation at losing The Sledding Hill took years to fade - especially after a snow storm. And sure, the city put in a swingset, but it wasn't the same. We missed "our" tree.

As we talked, our friend Julie listened. I tried to explain about the vacant lot and the hours we'd spent there. Both Tiffany and I told her how furious we'd been to lose our play place to a leveled, sanitized park, but she just looked more and more puzzled.

"Did you go through the pipe under the street?"

"Oh, yeah!"

I turned to Julie. "I think I'm the only kid who didn't ride their innertube through the pipe that went under the street between her house and mine." Again, Julie looked politely puzzled, even as I tried to explain.

Just after the bend in the ditch that took it east again, the ditch went under the street. (This is the same street that would be closed, in our minds, just so we could sled across it.) The water fell about six feet once on the other side, creating a little waterfall, and the force of the falling water created one of the very few places in the ditch where the water was over everyone's head. We estimated The Swimming Hole to be about seven feet or so deep, based on the observations of people who hit the bottom after going through the pipe. It was about seven feet wide, too, before the ditch narrowed again to its standard three to five feet across.

I am severely water phobic. There was no way, not even for a million dollars, that I was going through the pipe. Everyone assured me that you could breathe, despite having to lay on your back to go through, and assured me that even if I didn't swim well, I would not drown in The Swimming Hole. It was a valiant but vain attempt; I never even went in The Swimming Hole, much less through the pipe. I climbed out of the water a long way before hitting the pipe, for fear I'd be sucked through against my will. My sister went through; she loved it. Every other kid in the neighborhood and their visiting friends and relatives went through; not me.

"I was so mad when they covered the ditch," Tiffany said.

"Oh, I've never gotten over it. My son feels so gypped when he hears my stories." My son can't believe he doesn't get to go wading, tubing, skating, catching fish, frogs and snakes, right here in our neighborhood.

I told my second oldest daughter about talking to Tiffany, and she was aghast at stories of the pipe. She assumed that we'd done it in secret, without our parents knowledge or consent. "No one does stuff that dangerous any more!" she said. I found that rather amusing - she's my thrill seeker, boundary pusher and the one of my kids who exults in breaking rules. I assured her that our parents knew. "Now, kids' stories are things like, 'I played video games for 12 hours straight,' " she said. "They get carpal tunnel." I think she's right, but boy, the world was safer back then, I think.

Consider it: with less supervision, fewer scheduled activities and fewer facilities, we were still safer. My parents were overprotective, and they thought nothing of sending us to the movies by ourselves, or letting us go swimming with no adult supervision, much less lifeguards, and letting us build and sit in our own tree fort. I miss those days, for me and for my kids. It's sad that they're gone, probably forever.

But boy, it sure felt good to talk to someone else who knew EXACTLY what I was talking about!

Oh, by the way: I live in one of those "rich people's houses," but now, the neighborhood is considered decidedly downscale, despite most houses, like mine, having been added onto since then. Fashion is fickle, and it dislikes age.