Pandemic Problems

 So, it's been almost exactly a year since the world shut down for COVID 19. I was on a cruise ship when that happened, with spotty internet and no real idea what the rest of the world looked like while I planned my days around trivia quizzes, lectures and movies. We came home to a very different world than the one we'd left.

We all remember, I think, the last time things were "normal" before they changed. It's a shared experience; we all understand it.

As is usual, though, I find that I don't really understand how some other people reacted to the new reality. I mean, on an intellectual level, I can tell you how they feel, and why. I just do not emotionally relate to it.

Some people, when I'd post photos from my own back yard online, would say, "You went outside!?! Why? It's dangerous outside!" Well, look, being exposed to other people was potentially dangerous, but there's nobody in my back yard except me, and maybe someone who lives in my house with me. I didn't understand the extreme fear of simply existing in the world.

I went anywhere in public only once in that first month, to get groceries. There's three of us in my house, so in the first three months, each of us went to the store once. Maybe if I had a job outside my home - I don't - I would have been a bit more prepared for this, but when I finally went somewhere in mid to late April, I could not get over how many people were on the road. It looked like any other ordinary day. "Where are all these people going?" I wondered. 

After a month at home, I went driving to a lake just outside of town, hoping for fresh air and the chance to take photos; those are two of my preferred ways to relax. And all across town, the streets were full. When we got to the lake, the parking lot was almost full. Luckily, most of the people were out on the lake, wind surfing, so we were all distanced, and I got great photos. Still, I was a bit surprised by how many people were out and about. And how one of them wanted to walk RIGHT UP TO me to talk; hey, I don't even like that when I'm not worried about germs.

Which brings me to the other people that I don't understand, the people who experienced fear and anger and pain in being home all the time. I started to see all kinds of things online about how "humans aren't meant to live like this!" and predictions that violence and suicide would increase - and they did! This was a surprise to me.

Because I was, sincerely, happy as a clam. I woke up every day, especially in the first three or four months, thinking, "Yay!" I had no schedule, no expectations, no obligations, and it was delightful. For most of my life, I rarely watched TV during the day, but now, I had no problem with sitting down in my jammies and watching TV any time I felt like it. I read books, I painted, I stayed up late (for me, anyway) and slept in. I'd look online and see that people were taking online classes, cooking from scratch and making sourdough, and FaceTiming daily, and it just sounded exhausting. I was not organizing my closets and deep cleaning. I was rewatching old TV series - hello, Stargate Atlantis; I'm always going to gloat a bit that I knew how cool Jason Momoa was years before everybody else figured it out. I should have done more cleaning, really, but it felt like vacation, and who deep cleans on vacation? Not me. Everybody likes vacation - how were they not as happy as I was? Really, I was puzzled; I am puzzled.

But, because I was puzzled, I thought about it, I read about it, I talked to people, and I tried to figure out what people were thinking. I feel the need to repeat here that I don't look at differences as being an intrinsic case of, "who's wrong, who's right?" Right and wrong are for moral issues and the laws of physics, not for the fact that the world contains infinite variety, especially in humans. I'm also deeply puzzled any time someone sees that they're out of step, and immediately agonizes that they're wrong, or judges that everyone else is wrong and probably stupid. Some flowers are yellow, and some are red. Some dogs are small, and some are large. Some people prefer things that make me miserable, and vice versa. The point is to understand, not to relegate everything to two little boxes.

I also need to be clear that I am not speaking about about families or individuals who were experiencing job loss, illness, death of a loved one, lack of food, or anything else that is actually tragic. Those people deserve every bit of help and love and empathy that we have, and more. Their pain should, always, be our own. I also understand that most people were having some kind of empathy response, feeling for those who were experiencing these things. I'm speaking from my place of incredible privilege, about people whose homes looked a lot like mine - plenty of food (and TP), income, secure housing, good health, and loved ones who are mostly in that same boat, people whose lives are physically comfortable, but who now had to deal with being home (in comfort) almost all of the time, and were feeling uncomfortable about it.

The things that didn't resonate with me were things like, "How many times can you organize your sock drawer?" or actual angst, like the woman who said to me, "Was I always this friendless, and I just didn't notice?" I had to roll that around in my brain for a while, because it made no sense to me. How can you have fewer friends, just because you're at home, not out and about?

I think I've figured that out; it has to do with who we perceive as a friend. My definition is very broad and encompassing. If I like you, if I have positive thoughts about you or feelings for you, you are my friend. Unless I specifically dislike you, you're my friend. That means that you, personally, are in luck if we've ever met; I would be hard pressed to name more people than I can count on one hand as being people that I just do not like. Even then, even counting the very few people on the planet whose presence I avoid, I don't wish harm or misery on any of them. I hope they're happy and healthy, just not in my presence. If they were to be in my presence, I would be polite, unless pushed pretty aggressively.

Sure, I understand the concept of "close" and "casual" friends, but it's become fairly clear to me that I don't categorize the same way some other people do. There are people who have never been in my home, who have never hosted me in their home (despite living in my community), whose numbers are not stored in my phone, who are absolutely my close friends. Some I've known for decades. 

A few years ago at a funeral, I saw someone with whom I hadn't been in contact for over 20 years. But we were kids together, we understand a lot of each other's backstory, they could have my organs if they ever need them, so the first words out of my mouth were, "I love you!" accompanied by a hug. And they said, "I love you too! How have you been?"

I'm often sincerely puzzled by people who see each other several days a week. I don't understand that; I don't do that. My parents didn't do that. My parents had family, neighbors, friends that they liked, that they did things with, but there were no weekly bridge games or girls/guys nights. There were no daily, or almost daily, phone calls. I'm the same way. Seeing someone 3 or 4 times a year feels "often" to me.

I also sincerely cannot make sense of the idea, "Well, I did like you, I thought you were fun, but then we didn't see each other for a while, so now we're not friends anymore." When I talk to people who only feel close to someone if they see each other all the time, it feels artificial and needy. I can be outside of your presence and still feel that you're my friend. One of my close friends, who I've known since we were kids, described it this way: "I don't need to see people every day to know who my friends are."

Other people have called me and my relatives like me "anti social." I prefer the wording of a professional counselor that I once saw - "You just function with a very high degree of autonomy. Most people don't." I'm not afraid or unhappy, I'm just self contained, and I can't imagine why that would be a bad thing.

I remember being puzzled when I was a newlywed moving to a new town. I'd be hundreds of miles from the only city I'd ever lived in, moving to a city in which I knew no one but my husband. Someone who truly was concerned about me said something about how hard it would be, because "you won't have any friends!" I replied, "I'll have the same friends that I have right now."

"But there won't be anybody to hang around with, day to day!"

"I don't hang out with my friends much now." I was 20, only two years out of high school, but I considered frequent contact to be something that kids with a lot of free time did. Several of my best friends had moved away, others were in school full time, some were like me and working two jobs. There was not a lot of time or money for hanging out, and our schedules were no longer similar, nor did we all live in the same neighborhood anymore. Getting together was a 'special occasion" kind of thing. I thought that was normal; I still do. I liked them, they liked me, I still wrote long, newsy letters, but now I put stamps on them instead of handing them off between classes. I didn't feel the need to audition people for Frequent Contact Buddy, because I wasn't lonely without one.

And yes, sometimes being with other people feels very much like an audition. They're trying to figure out if they want to spend time with you. Sometimes, the answer is no; sometimes, that's a good thing. Not too long ago, a dear friend - someone else I've known since we were kids - told me about someone who phoned them and said, "I'm sorry, it just takes too much work to be your friend, and I can't do it." The reason? An invitation was extended, the answer was, "Let me check with the rest of my family, and see what the work schedules look like," and that took until the next day to accomplish. That sounds so very normal to me. My husband's in bed at 6 PM, and works 12 hour shifts; if it's not an emergency, I may not discuss it with him for about 24 hours, because I won't see him for about 24 hours. Apparently, the Invitation Extender felt that things can, and should, be determined quickly, and arranged via text almost immediately. Having to wait overnight stressed them out.

I have to say, if that's the case, then I couldn't really fit into their circle, which means that "we can't be friends," since their definition of "friend" looks different than mine. Theirs sounds exactly like "too much work" to me. I tell people, truthfully, that I don't often carry my phone, especially at home. Calls, texts, or emails are usually answered within 24 hours. If that doesn't work for you, then no hard feelings, but we should not plan on doing things together.

So, the pandemic doesn't feel all that different to me. In fact, I often see or speak to people more than I did before quarantine. I spent weeks taking Porch Portraits, because people were home and available, and I love to have subjects to photograph (and I could stand out on the sidewalk, no close contact). I took the first family photos for friends with a newborn. I took "first home" photos for young couples. I learned how to Zoom. People occasionally call just out of the blue, to see if we're OK. I do not feel ignored at all.

Do you know what has happened? I hate driving. I sincerely hate driving. I have been on the freeway only once in about 9 months, and I hated every second. It takes 15 minutes on the freeway to get to our favorite pizza place; I drive through town, taking 30 minutes. The first time I drove out of town since quarantine began, I had a little panic attack on the highway. It was a familiar road - I've driven it since I was a teen, and I was only going an hour away. I've driven it twice in a day before. Now, I just came unglued. That was ten months ago. I haven't driven on the highway since.

I've never been really comfortable with traffic or high speeds. Even as a kid, I was not a speed demon. I grew up during a time when 55 was the national speed limit, and I drove a clunky, slow VW van, and I really resent being asked to drive 75 now. It feels dangerous. It always has. So does traffic. My husband and I have always had a deal: on road trips, I will drive for hours through open country and small towns. He will drive in cities. I once had to drive home through LA when he was sick, and I spent at least an hour yelling at other cars and saying, "YOU OWE ME!" to my sick husband.

My brother lives about 10 hours away by car (at or near the speed limit). It's a familiar road; I've been on it, as a passenger and a driver, since I was a kid. Most of it is flat, straight, wide open road like you see in car commercials, where your visibility is 50 miles. But there are two mountain passes, steep and curving, that I hate. I'd be OK if I could drive them at 45 or 55, but I'm told that I can't, that someone will hit me from behind, so I cringe every second I'm there. I'm going too fast, other people are going WAY too fast, there's little visibility, there's no margin for error. I hate it - and that's on a good, normal day. I hate being a passenger there, too. Now, I do not know when I might ever be able to face that again. Certainly not now.

And I hate talking to people about it. I say, "I'd be fine if there were no other cars. I could mosey at 45, and everything would be fine." Then other people say, "What are you talking about? If there were no other cars, you could cruise at 120, and do 150 on the straightaways!" That just sounds like death. Speed is dangerous, speed turns small rocks into something that will spin you out or puncture your tire, it makes you likely to lose control, it will send you hurtling over edges and off of curves and tumbling down the mountain until you explosde. I hate speed. As a teen, I once got up to 65 downhill, and it felt like the Daytona 500 and a very bad idea. That means that other people do not "get" me.

Still, I coped well. Only a few years ago, I drove, by myself, on a 6+ hour round trip, on the highway, just to get photos for a niece's school Flat Stanley project. I left town headed north, and hours later, returned to town from the south. I had fun; the solo driving was a kind of meditation time. Now, I cannot muster up the courage to drive 10 minutes outside of town to take photos of the wild horses. Oh, I'll go one direction, on the old highway, because the new highway bypasses it, meaning there's almost no traffic on the old highway. But I will not get on the interstate.

Six months ago, I gritted my teeth, and was a passenger while my husband drove us an hour away, on smaller, state roads, for a tiny vacation. I didn't worry too much about the virus, but I worried A LOT about traffic. It felt as if I nearly had a stroke when he passed a highway department vehicle on a downhill curve. The drive was misery.

You're supposed to visualize doing things that you want to do, or get better at. I want to eventually drive on the freeway, and leave town on the highway, so I visualize it. I'm fine and calm until I visualize other drivers on the road. Then I freak out. I don't like other cars. They're deadly weapons, driven by impatient, distracted people. They could kill me.

Doing something frequently smooths out the edges of the anxiety, desensitizes you to it, so it becomes more doable. During this quarantine, I have lost all of my desensitization to traffic and speed and curves. I am a raw nerve ending.

I want to fix it. I eventually will fix it. But when people talk about what makes them sad right now, it's being home, and what makes them happy is leaving. I'm happy at home, and leaving makes me sad. Then people feel compelled to tell me that I'm "not normal," and need to work at being normal, because normal is a life goal. That's misery, too. "Normal" and "average" are just math. And I'm entitled to feel however I feel.

But in a society that considers sameness to be a bonding experience, I'm outside of the loop.

In Traffic

When I was a kid, I read parts of the newspaper every day, but it wasn't the headlines. It was the comics, Dear Abby, and Dave Barry. (I'm still miffed that Dave Barry no longer writes regular columns.) As an adult, I also read the news, but I still love the comics. I sometimes read advice columns; I might agree with the advice, not agree, or have no basis for an opinion (like the advice columns in my husband's handyman magazines; I don't know how to wire your new whatever).

I have rarely thought that an advice columnist was farther off the mark than when they answered a query from someone who wrote in to say, "I hate it when cars drive right next to me. I feel compelled to either speed up or slow down. Is this normal?"

Let me just digress for a moment here to say, I am baffled by the sheer number of people who apparently worry about whether or not they are "normal." I only tend to worry about it in, say, terms of post-op recovery, so I know when I need to seek out the doctor - "Your body will do this or that, but don't worry, it's normal."

I'm more like my son. His sister frequently asks, "Is it weird that I like (x)?" He has no patience for this, and is likely to snap, "Who cares? So you like it. It doesn't matter if that's weird." While I think he should be less snappish about it, that's how I feel. Like it or don't. There is no reason to spend a single second wondering if you're "normal." I think this behavior is a result of people deciding that normal = desirable, which it does not.

But anyway - back to the advice.

I was positive that I knew what the columnist would say. I, too, hate having cars next to me, or too close in front or behind. I think the reasons for this are obvious, and rooted in safety. A car near you, especially at freeway speeds, has the potential to harm you. If the other driver so much as sneezes, or looks at their phone, or gets aggressive in passing, you can be seriously harmed or killed. Cars are deadly weapons. I know nothing about most drivers that I'll encounter, but I'm asked to trust them literally with my life, and the lives of my family. I am most comfortable when they are far from me, not so close that I could touch them. So yes, I hate it when they want to drive right next to me. I, too, will speed up or slow down in order to shake them off.

This is not what the columnist said. She blathered on for several paragraphs about perceived intimacy. People like to think that they are anonymous in their cars, she said, so having someone close enough to see you feels like forced intimacy, so it makes us emotionally uncomfortable.

What? On what planet? They have thousands of pounds of metal right next to me, and I don't know if they're careful! I don't care if they can make eye contact! I'm worried about automobile contact!

But no; the columnist wanted to carry on about intimacy issues. I found myself mentally addressing her - "Honey, I'm not dating them! I'm trying to stay alive at 75 MPH!"

Maybe you have intimacy issues. I don't care, as long as you stay in your lane.

I should probably never write an advice column (I'd end up saying, "Who cares if you're normal?" and people would sue); but I'm sure that I'm right about this.

Food Bank Donations

Today my family volunteered at the Food Bank. We do this every three months or so, with my Rotary Club.

Today we sorted food from a recent food drive. I've seen this same thing happen before, and I feel the need to address it.

IF YOU DONATE FOOD: Thank you! You rock.

Please keep in mind, though - watch the expiration dates. I am far from a nut about these things. I happily eat food that is literally years past its date - how "bad" can dried pasta get? It makes my kids crazy, but I'm much older than they are, and have never had a problem. You're probably thinking that any food is better than no food, and you're right. Here's the problem, though: the Food Bank is not allowed to pass out food that's any more than 6 months past its "sell by" date. Let me repeat that in case someone missed it. The rules do not allow the Food Bank to distribute food that is years past its "sell by" date. There's a 6 month window, and that's it.

They can't put it out with a sign saying "expired; use at your own risk." They can't let volunteers take it home. They are not allowed.

Is this ridiculous? I think so. As I said, I regularly eat canned and boxed stuff that is far past its date. I worry about the date only on perishables, and even then, I'll buy the "bargain bin" meat that's past its date, and throw it in my freezer. (Again, I'm still alive. I've had food poisoning ONCE in my almost 50 years, and it came from bad handling, not from age.)

Today, there were entire bags of food with dates three, four, and five years out of date. One package expired in 1998. The "winner" was one that expired in 1993. We had to throw ALL of it out. There was probably a dumpster full by the time all was sorted. It took time, gas, money and effort for your donation to end in the trash. This is not a chance to clean your cupboards and unload what you don't want to eat.

Also, they have to throw out any individual packages - say, applesauce cups - that do not have a date stamped. If it was part of a larger pack, you can't donate it. Well, OK, you can, but it'll get thrown away. Complete packages only, thanks.

IF YOU RECEIVE HELP: Thank you for allowing others to serve you, especially if you are feeding children, the elderly or the sick. There is no shame in receiving needed help! Do not feel bad about yourself.

BUT: please keep in mind that you should be gracious about the generosity of others. I have, in the past, heard others complain about their donated food. "There's nothing good or high quality in here. It's all store brand. It's mostly canned, with all that sodium and processed sugar. They think that, just because we're down on our luck, we don't deserve anything good."

NO. That is NOT what it means. I donate store brand food because I EAT store brand food. I'll pick up one for me and one for you. You get EXACTLY what I feed my family, as far as canned, boxed or jarred foods go.

Also, many people donate because they know what it's like to be in need. I remember Christmas the first year I lived on my own. I was working for minimum wage, and my idea of "a varied diet" meant chicken ramen for lunch, and beef ramen for dinner. I donated two (store brand) cans of green beans and corn. I thought that, if someone managed to buy some chicken, maybe a package of drumsticks, that my veggies would make a complete dinner. I was really proud that I could help.

For many years now, I've been able to eat pretty much whatever I wanted; I could eat out daily if I felt like it. I still donate because I know what it's like to worry about not having enough food. Plus, I'm a mother; we feed.

Would it be nice if you could get donated fresh, organic food, or food that met your restrictions due to, say, allergies? Sure. But, it's very, very hard to gather and distribute fresh food, because it spoils so quickly. When you're dealing with large numbers, or a wide geographic area (and our Food Bank covers one of the nation's largest geographic areas, including rural areas), you need cans, jars and boxes, because they store and travel well.

That's also why, if your boxes of macaroni look crushed, or your canned peas have a ding in the rim, you need to relax. I've heard people have fits about that, too. "They don't even care! These are all crushed!" If there's large amounts of food involved - and there is - or lots of handling and travel involved - and there is - some things will look worse for wear. If someone donated Cheerios and they were in the bottom of a bin, and someone donated canned chili, and the chili went in on top, the box might get crushed. Maybe some Cheerios themselves might break. They're still safe to eat. It is NOT a sign of disrespect or of the food being unsafe.

Sometimes, a jar of jelly or pasta sauce might break. In that case, the food it was near might get leakage all over. The choice might be made to wash off those cans and jars, again because the food in them is still good. If your labels look as if they've been wet, stained or torn, leakage is likely why. It would be a shame to throw away your peanut butter instead of washing off the leaked jelly. I washed off a jar today. The label looks awful, but the food inside is fine.

Keep in mind - we're asked, while we're making those sorting decisions, "Would you feed it to your family?" I would.

We're all in this together!

Safety Rules

I felt the need to pause the television show we were watching recently and deliver an Important Parental Lecture to my 15 year old.

We were watching one of my favorite shows, a crime drama. A potential witness to a kidnapping was describing how he was nervous, watching a teenager he took to be intoxicated leaving with a man, until he noticed that the man was with a woman who seemed to be his wife - "Then, I figured, it was safe." As I described the moment to my husband the next day, he said, "Oh, you must have come unglued at that point."

My husband knows the story, the story that all of my kids have heard, about one of the most traumatic things that happened in our community when I was growing up. A girl from our congregation at church disappeared, along with her best friend. They were taken, and murdered, by a husband and wife serial killer team. (See "No, Not Cereal...") It doesn't matter if you're Gerald Gallego and Charlene Williams (responsible for the death of the girls from my town) or Paul and Karla Bernardo, a young, beautiful murderous Canadian couple who participated equally, or Cameron and Janice Hooker, with a dominant partner and one who simply goes along. No one can assume that a wife, or a woman, means safety.

My 15 year old is too trusting and naive anyway (a trait that I fear she gets from me). She once received phone calls and e-mails from a stranger that set off all kinds of mental alarms for her dad and me, but none for her. She explained that she felt "it was OK, because she's a woman," and my immediate, gut response was, "Do you know how many of the convicted Manson Family killers were women between the ages of 18 and 21? Three out of five!"

I don't know if that's "good" parenting or not, but I do feel that it's necessary.

Again, I found myself, with the TV program paused, saying, "Never, never never assume that a woman or a couple means that it's safe."

"I know, Mom. They told us that in my Red Cross classes." She's very proud of being a Red Cross Certified Babysitter. She started recounting things the instructor said about how to avoid being a victim - throw whatever you might have in your hands, scream, wet yourself, make a scene, make yourself an unappealing target.

That's fine, but I felt that I had to explicitly warn her again that danger may not look like danger. I reminded her about the girl I knew. Two teens were approached by a woman, a woman a good six inches shorter than my daughter, and offered a job putting flyers under windshield wipers. "They're both dead." Her eyes widened, and I worried, again, that she doesn't remember things that might be important some day.

This isn't the first time I've stopped in the middle of a program to have these discussions. I did the same thing once with three of my kids, two teens and an adult. The subject then was something that happened in 1974 at Lake Sammamish State Park in Washington. An attractive, well dressed, articulate young man with his arm in a sling approached a young woman and asked her for help loading his sailboat onto his car. "What's the red flag here?" I asked. They all looked rather blank. "Something about this scenario should be setting off warning bells. What is it?"

My youngest offered, "He's asking her to leave where she is and go someplace else with him." While I was gratified that she'd internalized one of the safety rules that we'd given her, that wasn't what I was looking for. None of them could think of anything unusual or dangerous about the request.

I pointed out, "How is he going to sail with his arm in a sling?" The younger two went, "Oh!" as the mental lightbulb went on.

My second born, who was 25 at the time, said, "Yeah - I wouldn't notice that at all. It wouldn't occur to me that anything was wrong."

"That," I informed her, "is what keeps me awake at night." She's bright and reasonably well informed, but she doesn't read people or situations well. I worry that it paints a figurative target on her chest.

The attractive young man in question was Ted Bundy. The sling was merely a prop. His arm was just fine - and there was no sailboat. He approached several young women at the park that day. Most turned him down. Two - Janice Ott and Denise Naslund - agreed to help, and died.

I hate the fact that friendliness or helpfulness can be fatal.

Sometimes, when we have these discussions, I can tell that my kids have grown up hearing different safety rules than my generation did. I once paused a program about a workplace shooting. Everyone in the office had been shot, but one was still alive, and attempted to crawl toward the phone while the shooter was still there. Hitting the pause button, I demanded, "What do you do in that situation?" - if you're in the midst of a group shooting.

Both of my teens immediately answered, "Play dead." Without prompting, they both said that the correct response was to hit the floor when the shooting started, and stay there, playing dead, until the shooter was gone. "Then you can dial 911."

I was glad that they both knew the answer that I was looking for, the answer that just might keep them alive.

I was sad that they live in a world where being involved in a mass shooting is seen as a possibility.

House Hunting

Watching television the other night, I was puzzled. I was watching people behave in ways that make no sense to me.

That shouldn't be surprising, really. I shouldn't expect everyone to be like me, and I like to think that I don't. I'm baffled, though, more often than I like to admit.

I was watching one of those real estate shows - people go shopping for a home in a certain city, and we, the audience, get to watch. We watched a couple with small children, relocating overseas, and a teacher buying her first home.

The relocating wife said, over and over, that it was important to her to "experience (the country's) lifestyle;" it seems to me that it's impossible to avoid it. You'll be living in another country. It's inevitable that you'll experience their lifestyle, even if you try to avoid it. Still, they'd look at properties, and she'd complain, "I can't experience (the country's) lifestyle here."

She'd look at bedrooms and say, "This is tiny! It's smaller than our closet back home," and be astonished that, "There's only one bathroom?"

"That's very typical of (our) houses," the agent would say. Apparently, that was not the "authentic lifestyle" that the client was hoping to experience.

One home, that I thought was darling, was below their budget. It was on a riverbank in a beautiful area that was described as being 15 minutes outside of town. It had a big yard (important to me, and fun for the kids), was across from a park, and near walking trails. The wife hated the downstairs decorating, which seems to me to be a small thing - it's relatively easy to paint and hang new art. She was very unhappy, though, that there were no stores or restaurants in easy walking distance. "I don't want to get in the car every time I want to go somewhere," she said. That, too, apparently kept her from "experiencing the lifestyle."

One home was quite a bit outside of their budget. Both husband and wife said, "Ooh," and grimaced when the agent told them the price. "That'll be quite a stretch," the husband said doubtfully. Still, the wife lit up as soon as they walked in.

"Look at the chandelier! It's gorgeous!" she said. I was thinking, "For that kind of money, the chandelier had better come to life and clean the house," but they didn't seem to be thinking the same thing. "It's so elegant!" the wife said. "And historic!"

As much as she loved the house, she loved what was outside the house even more. It was easy walking distance to the market and restaurants. The wife glowed. "Now this is the lifestyle that we came to experience!" she said.

They chose the expensive house. "We'll just travel less than we originally planned," the husband said. They were moving to a European nation, and had originally planned to use the time there to see more of Europe.

"Well, the kids are little. Maybe this just isn't the time of our lives to travel," the wife said.

I was left thinking, seriously? She'd rather have a really expensive house so that she can walk to the flower vendor and bring bouquets home to enjoy them under the elegant chandeliers than travel through Europe? I just can't imagine.

Obviously, to her, the country's lifestyle was synonymous with "urban" and "elegant." I have no problem with urban or elegant, but it irritated me immensely that she kept insisting that she wanted "authentic" when what she wanted was urban. They're not the same thing. Just be clear with the agent, and yourself, that you don't like suburban or rural areas. It'll waste less of your - and their - time.

As a newlywed, I lived in a rural area, outside of a small town. We bought a home about ten minutes from town. The only business that might have been in walking distance (and that was a stretch) was a gas station. My kids would have had to ride the bus if they'd been school age.

Many of my friends and relatives found my living circumstances to be varying degrees of undesirable, and used words like "tacky," "provincial" and "middle of nowhere" to describe it, but no one would have said, "You're not living an authentic American lifestyle." When they sang the praises of where they lived, or tried to convince me to relocate, they never said that it was more American or more authentic than where I lived.

If someone had moved there from overseas, I would not have expected them to say, "It's too bad that I won't be living an authentic American lifestyle." I would not expect them to move back home saying, "Gee, I wish I could have seen what America is like."

The single woman wasn't worried about being authentic; she said that her biggest concern was safety. She said that the scariest thing that had ever happened to her was having a man stand outside her home screaming, and then throw a chair through her window.

To that end, she'd specified the part of town she wanted, a part she assumed to be safe. She wanted to adopt a dog, so in addition to safety she wanted outdoor access.

She was shown an 8th floor condo in a lovely building that she deemed very safe, but it was a bit pricey, and she thought that "coming down 8 floors in the middle of the night so the dog can go potty seems a bit much." A less expensive ground floor condo impressed her because it was gated and necessitated a security code, but the fact that the bedroom window faced the alley - basically, the complex's driveway, giving access to the garage units and dumpsters - caused her a great deal of concern.

"You can always get security screens," the agent said. (She also sniffed to the camera later that, "In her price range in that neighborhood, she's going to be on the ground floor. She's going to have to deal with that.")

The agent also took her to a small, two bedroom house. "This neighborhood makes me nervous. I notice that there's businesses mixed in with the houses," the client said. I found it very amusing that the last client had been delighted by having businesses in walking distance, but it made this client nervous. (They weren't questionable businesses - no porn shops or the like.) "And this street seems very busy."

The house had a back yard that the client loved. "It's very private. Your neighbors can't see in, and there's plenty of room for a dog." She liked the house, until she opened the blinds on the master bedroom window. She visibly recoiled and turned on the agent as if she'd just discovered machine gun toting assassins.

"I told you how important safety was to me, and look at this! It looks right out front! The street is right there!"

At that point, I'm thinking several things. Was she unclear that the room was in front of the house until she physically opened the blinds? Was she unclear about how far away the street was? She just seemed so surprised, and I don't know why. I mean, it is TV, they probably ask people to amp up their reactions, but it still seemed odd.

Then, too, I'm unclear on how this made it unsafe. There's a light on the porch, there's a street light in front of the house, and yes, it's a fairly busy street; this means that it's the least likely spot for anyone to break in. Criminals try to avoid being seen. The backyard that she, and the cousin she brought along to help her decide, swooned over was a far more likely spot for a break-in. Out of sight of the neighbors or passers by, someone could take their time jimmying a locked door or window. Going into the unused guest room is also far safer and more likely for a house breaker than going into an occupied room in plain sight of the street, the neighbors, God and everybody.

Then I thought about a conversation with my middle daughter recently. I spent a month and a half sleeping in my living room, recovering from surgery and unable to climb the stairs to my bedroom. "Doesn't that creep you out?" she wanted to know.

"No." I wondered what about my living room was creepy. I mean, my decorating isn't everyone's taste, but it's certainly mine.

"You're about three steps away from the door."

"Is anybody going to be coming and going while I'm in bed?" I can handle people seeing me in my jammies (but they'd better not wake me up if I'm sleeping).

"Probably not. But you're right there if someone breaks in."

"The front door is the least likely place for anyone to break in." Maybe we've all been watching too much TV; criminals will likely not stand on my front porch fiddling with lockpicks. We also have a porch light, a streetlight in front of our house, and clear visibility up and down the street from the front.

Seeing a person in evidence is usually a deterrent, as well. Brian Mitchell, who kidnapped Elizabeth Smart, worried that he'd come across an adult in the house. He once tried to take another girl, but abandoned the plan because someone was sleeping on the sofa in the chosen home. He couldn't risk being seen or heard.

If my house is empty, it would be worse if someone broke in, because they'll have ample, unobserved time to wreak havoc and take my stuff.

Maybe most people worry about being near the front door. Maybe I'm unaware of how most people think.

Maybe the home buyer worried that people would see or hear what was happening in her house, and that made her feel exposed, which she equated with unsafe. Close the blinds at night, and you've fixed 90% of that. No one is going to stand in your front yard, in clear view of the neighborhood, peeking in through your closed blinds. They'd be arrested. Very few people will stand on the sidewalk and listen to you. (And if you're loud enough for people driving by to hear you, well, you have other issues.)

For that matter, in that private back yard, put security screens, motion sensor lights and maybe an alarm on the windows and door. Those and the dog she was hoping to get will deter probably 95% of criminals.

Was being on the ground floor really part of what made her nervous? I've never lived in a large city, where, in the words of the old TV show "Mad About You," homeowners generally "own square footage hundreds of feet in the air, like normal people." Safetywise, it seems to me that in a high rise, you'd have bigger worries about fire, earthquakes, plumbing leaks, power outages and dozens of other issues that seem to more than balance out any "danger" of being on the ground.

She bought the gated condo, in case you're wondering, and put in security screens.

Both times, the camera crew went back to see how they liked their choices; both times, the clients were very happy. That's good; one choice is not best for everyone. That's why there are choices.

I just didn't understand their thought processes.

Or maybe it's the way they expressed themselves that I didn't understand. If the first woman would have said that she valued urban living, and the second had said that she valued privacy, what they said and did would have made sense to me. Instead, I was baffled.

Human interaction is difficult.

Also, I don't think I'll ever want a career in real estate.

A Little Help From My Friends

The mother of one of my son's friends came over recently to tell me that she was afraid that some of the kids my son's been friends with for years were doing drugs. "I'm so sorry to drop this in your lap," she said. She gave me reasons for this fear, and named some names. She also expressed that, in her opinion, it would be a mistake to let my son spend time around these kids any more. "I'm just afraid that they'll drag him down. He's avoided all this mess."

It's a legitimate concern. Kids do drugs. They drink. They have unprotected sex with people they barely know, or like, well enough to speak to. Awful things happen. I don't mean to minimize the dangers or possibilities. Also, my son is a bright, ambitious, sober 18 year old, about to head off to a university hundreds of miles away. Now is not the time to derail.

Still, I am not really worried. I have not laid down any ultimatums.

Please, do not feel the need to "enlighten" me with horror stories. Please do not tell me that every parent thinks, "It won't happen to my kid." I know these things. I do. I don't feel that my child, or his friends, are angelic or perfect. I also do not feel that substance abuse is a rite of passage, and nothing to be alarmed about (or worse, necessary).

To understand how I feel, you have to understand me. To understand me, we have to go back, more than 30 years. We have to go back to high school.

In junior high (for me, 6th - 8th grade, fall 1977 - spring 1980) I knew a few kids who drank, and a few who did drugs. Most of my close friends were pretty sober, but I did know people who engaged in various risky or improper behaviors.

I once mentioned to my husband, in passing, that I'd learned to carry my purse from a successful purse snatcher and pickpocket.  "WHAT?" he responded. He found this fact bizarre and astonishing, and in need of an explanation.

I explained that my friend W had made a pretty tidy sum stealing purses and wallets. He'd shown me how to carry my stuff to minimize the chances that someone would take mine. He was a pretty good teacher. The only time someone's ever taken my bag, I walked out of a restaurant and left it there.

I started high school in the fall of 1980, and graduated in the spring of 1984.

Drugs were not hard to find. Alcohol was even easier. I mean, it was high school.

I spent most of my time in the theater department. I was also on the debate team, the yearbook staff and the newspaper staff. My friends ranged from total outcasts to the pretty and popular. I see no reason to dislike people unless they make it abundantly clear that they dislike me. Even then, I usually wish them well - just from a distance.

I have never had a thing for bad boys. I also did not swoon over jocks. My friends would obsess over how cute #42's butt was, or how mysterious the brooding James Dean wannabe in leather was, and it would just bore me. I tended to get crushes on the quirky, nerdy guys. Guys who can carry on an intelligent and funny conversation did it for me (and still do). As a freshman, I had no interest in the blue eyed, blond football player named Nick who sat next to me in science, but I was fascinated by the guy named John who sat in front of me and was in ROTC (the HEIGHT of uncool at my high school). He had painted his car to look like a tank, complete with turret on the roof. He was also witty.

Honestly, though, both my male and female friends saw me as some kind of third gender. I didn't date in high school.

I did hang around with a very large, very tightly knit group of kids. It felt like a family then, and it still feels like a family now.

A significant percentage of these kids did drugs and/or drank to excess. Not all, but enough to be over the 51% required to call it the majority. Some kids also dealt drugs, including one of my best friends. (He thought that no one would notice that he was buying himself sports cars with cash, while working at McDonald's.) Some went way beyond "sexually active" and into "promiscuous." One had his own still. (His "brew" was locally famous, and reputed to be high proof.)

This behavior was never what attracted me to any of them. I tended to view it with a middle aged attitude, hovering between fear and exasperation. I kept waiting for all of them to grow out of it.

On the other hand, they kept expecting me to grow up and get with the program and act like everybody else. They were fine with me as I was, though. They had no investment in making me change.

Even when I started driving a van, and took on the role of designated driver (before there was even a term for it), and was therefore fairly often at parties with very intoxicated people, I felt no pressure to drink or do drugs. None. Zero. I not only have never been intoxicated, I have never tasted a beer, or a joint, or many other substances. I take no credit and expect no admiration, because it took no effort at all. I'm not the only one who made it through school - or life - this way, either. I can introduce you to a number of us. It's not superhuman. It's fairly ordinary.

Almost no one offered alcohol or drugs to me, and those who did were satisfied with a simple, "No thanks." Let me tell you, nothing promotes sobriety more than being the only sober one in a room.  Intoxicated people have no idea how ridiculous they look and sound.

Others occasionally refused for me, with much more vehemence than I would have used. Once, someone offered me hallucinogenic mushrooms, and I said the customary, "No, thanks." Their response was a simple, "OK," and I thought that would be the end of it. Another friend leapt in.

"Don't EVER offer her anything like that again! EVER!"

The first friend was shocked. They thought they were being courteous, offering to share. They started to justify - "They're all natural. They're organic. The Native Americans have used them in their religious rituals for centuries..."

"I don't care! NEVER offer Sharon something like that!"

"It's OK," I said.

"No! It's not! It's against your religion!"

"I can say 'no' on my own."

"You shouldn't have to!"

They were protective, especially when they, themselves, were sober.

Still, it wasn't always pretty. I have been vomited on. I have cleaned up someone else's car - a Cadillac - in the middle of the night before the owner's children could return it home. I have sat next to a bed, making sure the sleeper's head hung slightly over the side. One of my dad's stories from his career at the fire department was about a coworker who fell asleep intoxicated and drowned in his own vomit; I was terrified that I would lose someone that I loved. Long before I became a parent, I had no qualms about dealing with the bodily fluids and functions of others.

Long after high school, I worried that someone would overdose, or die in a DUI crash, or be arrested for trafficking.

I never questioned whether they loved me. I felt very loved. I can't imagine that they ever questioned whether or not I loved them. My kids grew up calling many of these people "Aunt" and "Uncle." Most others, they know on a first name basis. I do not understand people who must be surrounded by others who agree with them, and behave in similar ways. Even at the age at which people tend to be the most judgmental and exclusionary, adolescence, we all held it together, loving people who were very, very different from ourselves.

At the time, many people (mostly adults) assured me that it was temporary. We'd never even see each other after high school, except for maybe at school reunions, they said. See the preceding paragraph; some of us are now grandparents, and we still love each other. We are still a part of each other's lives. My kids have "cousins" who are totally unrelated to them. We - the theater department of our high school - hold our own reunions, encompassing about 8 graduation years, because attending school reunions means that we're limited to seeing those from a single graduation year.

My mother always knew who was doing what (and with whom). She knew who took 1/2 an inch at a time from all the liquor bottles in the cabinet, combined and drank it in a concoction called "death." She knew who owned the still. She knew how my friend bought his sports cars. She knew who raided their parents' stash, and whose parents let them (and others) drink at home. I told her, the other kids told her - nobody hid things from my mom. She loved them anyway. This is not because my mother was enabling and trying to be cool. She would have preferred it if they were all sober and virginal. There were clear, iron clad rules. There would be none of this at her house or on her property, whether she was home or not. (No one ever violated this rule.) She would prefer it if it didn't happen in front of her kid, but she left that up to me. She would not give anyone money or bail anyone out. If you screwed up, it was on you. If you followed her rules, you were always welcome in her home. And I mean always - two kids once showed up at 11:30 at night to ask for a fudgesicle. She let them sleep at our house, and had no trouble letting me spend time at their houses.

And they all loved her. Until the end of her life, many of them called her Mom.

One of my siblings once argued with my mom that she was showing favoritism. "You hate my friends! You love Sharon's friends, and they do way worse stuff than mine do!" (This is debatable, but Mom didn't bother.) Her response was immediate and succinct.

"That's because Sharon has never felt compelled to act like her friends."

I thought about that statement when the mother came to me with her concerns about my son's friends.

I know that my son is not me, and that his friends are not my friends. I also know what kind of people they are.

My son is very secure in his beliefs and behaviors. He is bright, personable, friendly and not easily swayed. He doesn't drink, he doesn't use drugs, and I don't see him starting, even if someone makes it available. He is secure being the only "different" one, he is OK with being teased. He can walk away when he needs to. He does not cave in to pressure in order to fit in. If he was a different type of personality, things might be different.

The friends in question are great kids. I'm not going to swear that they've never done something stupid, because they're human, they're kids, and their brains aren't done forming yet. Plus, not everyone believes in lifelong teetotaling. Still, I cannot conceive of them as being so far gone that they're a danger to my kid.

I thought about my mother's reaction to my friends. I thought about how my life would be immeasurably emptier without them in it. I thought about the people my son has added to our family - because they are family. They are not disposable.

Three of my kids are adults, and one is a teen, so we can have conversations that may have been iffy when they were younger.

"Can you imagine," I asked, "how all of our lives would be different if Grandma had insisted that I couldn't be around Aunt B any more?" Their Aunt B spent years intoxicated on a daily basis, in a household where adults could be absent for weeks at a time. My kids know this, and they know how much their grandma loved Aunt B. "Can you even imagine Aunt B being a bad influence?" Their shocked looks said that they could not.

I had a conversation with the kids in question, and their moms. They knew what had been said. I did not ask what they may or may not have done. I did not threaten, or lecture. I said, "Do we have to have a conversation about what I consider to be acceptable behavior?"

They laughed. "No, Mom." They know.

I said to my son, "Even if other people lose their minds, I expect you not to lose yours."

"I know, Mom."

I asked the other parents, "Are you worried?"

"Not at all."

"OK, then. We're all clear."

In 30 years, maybe they'll have similar conversations with their kids, and be able to think of how their honorary aunts and uncles did not ruin their parents' lives. I hope so.

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.