Angie’s Memoir Project – Page 2

Finding Joy in the Desert

My early years in Arizona were intense and isolated. I didn’t have a lot of friends and I was with the kids all day, every day. I was home schooling and Richard had many church obligations on Sunday and some weekday evenings. One evening, Richard took the three boys camping and Paige was at a friend’s house watching movies. I realized I would be alone all evening, and none of my children needed me.

I sat on the couch, and the silence hovered all around me. The piano wasn’t being played. The dishes were done. No one was asking me for a cup of milk or a bowl of goldfish crackers. The accumulated fatigue from my lifestyle seemed to settle like a frost, and my body, used to constant motion and focus, took its cue and didn’t feel like doing ANYTHING. I couldn’t settle on what to do with this time alone. I had lost excitement for things other than parenting that I loved to do.

I had hit a wall of exhaustion, and it would take more than one night alone to sort things out. But I did. I wasn’t always exhausted, but there was a pessimism that hounded me. I hope my experience can be helpful to someone else.

Now that the fog of those early parenting years is gone, I see more distinctly how stretched I was. To be clear, I loved playing with, teaching, reading to, and spending time with my children. But it was also very difficult. Writing my worries about the kids and my doubts in my parenting choices in my journal was a healthy outlet. I’d come away from a good journal-writing session feeling like the problems were expressed and solutions were on the way. I rarely took time to write about the good things about parenting in my journal, though, and that was something that needed to change.

Being tired, even exhausted, is a real part of being a parent of young children. Difficulty doesn’t necessarily mean something is bad. Those early years are a temporary marathon. If I could do it again, I wouldn’t feel ashamed of my personal need for solitude. I didn’t want to give the impression to anyone, especially the kids, that I saw parenting as a burden. But parenting IS a burden; it is a worthy, beautiful burden, and like any burden, it needs to be set down sometimes. I was wrong to think that taking some time away from the kids was selfish. It taxed my mental health to deny myself time with Richard and deny myself time alone. It created impossible dilemmas in my marriage. My prayers suffered. I could physically do the things I needed to do, but my spirit was faltering. I had developed a bad attitude about so many things.

I found my way out over the next few years by making some very minor adjustments in my life. There is nothing religious in my formula except a search for joy. I didn’t pray more or make huge efforts in temple work. I just decided to focus on the happy side of my story. I was still a stay at home mom with 4 children to educate. Richard was still busy at church. We were still living in the desert. All that changed was my attitude. The change came gradually because I did the following (these are links to old posts)*:

*If you are a parent of young children, perhaps your needs are different than mine. While I needed solitude, maybe you need more time with friends. I needed independence; a housekeeper or regular babysitter would have been too hard for me to accept. You may be different. Perhaps help around the house would be just the thing. Pride and comparison can get in the way of finding joy, too. It seems to me that the best thing to do is make a list of your interests, gifts, limitations, and dreams and make a plan. Finding joy can be as basic as smiling at a belligerent toddler instead of getting angry, or finding time to do something you love, even for one minute.

Smile First: Teenage edition

Smile First

(An updated version of a post I wrote in 2012)

I watched a young child inch his way from the back of a crowded room to the front to get closer to his mother who was speaking at the head of the congregation at church. He sat down on the front row and gazed up at her, anticipating her return. When she finished speaking and began walking to her seat, the child, anxious to be with his mother, uttered a hopeful little, “Mama,” looking for a hug and a joyful reunion. She was embarrassed that he had been walking around during the meeting and her grim face showed that she was upset with him (and maybe the father who had allowed the boy to wander). As she picked him up in a hurried way, he read all of her signs and began to cry. She wasn’t happy to see him waiting for her on the front row, after all.

She did something that is easy to do when a child does something, innocent or not, that draws attention to us in a crowd: she forgot to smile first.

When I saw this, I recognized myself. All children make noise and act out. They should be taught how to behave in church and at restaurants and stores, but I wonder if my children felt rejection when I “shushed” them all of the time. I wanted to be admired socially as a good parent. My children have never been very noisy, but there are other social missteps that they have shown. How many times had I been embarrassed that my child would not participate in an activity with other children or had been an overly picky eater as a guest in someone’s home, and resorted to strongly whispered bribes, pleas, and orders to try to get them to just be like everybody else?

My children, who have now learned how to sit still during a meeting and eat a variety of foods, don’t pose the same challenges that they did when they were little. Is there a principle of parenting here that can be applied to teens? What is a teenage equivalent to wandering around during a church meeting? Clothing choices, hair styles, being disengaged at family social gatherings and mumbling instead of speaking clearly are ways that teenagers inadvertently cause parents some social angst. I’m trying to omit the thought, “What will other people think if I don’t show public disapproval for immature behavior?”

Over the past few years I have remembered this phrase, “Smile first and correct them later.” I’ve made it a point to show my children and the world that I love these kids more than I disapprove of them. It takes courage to stop worrying what other people might think of my parenting if I choose to smile first and to correct them away from the crowd.

The haircut

1995 Los Alamos-001 — Post-haircut on the good side

Riding out of town with my groom after our wedding reception in a snowstorm felt adventurous. Unconcerned about realities, we snacked on wedding sandwiches and cake as we drove to Los Alamos, New Mexico, where we would spend the summer for Richard’s internship. We drove into a blizzard in Colorado and nearly ran out of gas at a mountain summit, but all this became part of the happy legend of our beginnings.

Were we ready for this life of independence, fending for ourselves far from home? I relied pretty heavily on Richard’s life experience; his mission years and his 4 years seniority meant that his points of reference no longer included high school experiences, as mine embarrassingly still did. Most of our belongings we left in a storage shed behind the house we would rent from my parents in Provo when the summer was over. We had only packed the essentials for three months away: some clothes, a cooler, sleeping bags, a grill, a tent, and my violin. Everything was new, from our camping gear and Richard’s job, to our life together.

Los Alamos (White Rock) is where I made my first attempts at homemaking in a fully-furnished house. While Richard worked, I had many hours to learn how to iron his shirts, dampening them and re-ironing when the seams weren’t right. I learned to skin and de-bone chicken; I may have watched soap operas. These were long days. After I got a job, the days weren’t so slow; we cooked together in the evenings and I didn’t spend all day reading cookbooks and walking mile after mile through deserted neighborhoods.

After about six weeks, Richard’s hair was getting long and we decided to buy an electric clipper so I could give him a trim. I had watched my mom cut hair for years. Confidently, I turned on the clipper and applied it to the side of Richard’s head. One simple sweep upward from the ear exposed a neat, nearly bald track through his hair. I had forgotten to put a comb on the clipper! I was mortified; I didn’t dare try to fix the problem, so we abandoned the haircut and he wore a baseball cap for a few days.

My parents came to town around this time and my mom was able to even up his haircut. What I remember most from the experience is how selfless Richard was. He didn’t act self-conscious about his ruined hair. He wasn’t angry with me. In fact, he reassured me that it didn’t matter. He had very short hair for a while, but he was so noble about it that he lifted me out of my insecurities.

As a seal of his fidelity and kindness, a couple months later, he asked me to give him another haircut.

The Vibrant Lady on the Running Board

The first memory I have of Grandma Stewart is waiting for her to arrive at her home from Girls Camp. My family had arrived in Sparks, Nevada, from Utah and we were so anxious to see her. My brothers and I explored her manicured back yard, the barrels full of flowers, a neatly painted storage shed, and patio chairs with squishy floral cushions to pass the time. We moved to the front yard, and eventually, we saw the truck drive up with Grandma. It was an enormous white truck, and when it pulled up, she jumped out onto the running board on the passenger side, and waved at us with a big smile. She was in a sweatshirt and had a bandanna tied around her hair, but she made quite an entrance into my memory.

Of course she was there long before I had memories. I see pictures of her holding me as an infant, and me rifling through her kitchen drawer full of plastic bags before I was a year old. One picture shows 4 generations of women, my Great-grandmother Spencer, Grandma Stewart, my mom, and me as a newborn. Now that my grandmothers are gone, I continue to feel the physical, spiritual, and emotional strength they carried with them. I was born into a family of strong, powerful, vibrant women. Their influence held me before I had memories, through the growing up years, and into adulthood. At first I only noticed superficial things about my grandmother, such as painted nails, lots of laughter, traditions, and best behavior, but these were just the trappings of my grandmother’s strength; and she instilled this strength in me each time we met.

Grandmother JoAnn Stewart was sparkly but modest, outgoing but private; babies often cried when she held them, but she was the first one to help out and welcome them to the world. She walked so quickly we couldn’t keep up, but was continually present in my life.

“Angie needs to learn to do the dishes without complaining,” I overheard my mom say to Grandma Stewart on the phone.

The next week when Grandma arrived, she did the dishes with me for days, both of us in yellow gloves. She showed me that I could scrub the silverware with the ridges of my glove. She made it fun.

She celebrated people. More than once she paraded me down the carpeted MGM Grand Hotel staircase, singing, “Here she is, Miss America,” reminding me to look at myself in the mirrors that surrounded us. When my little sister was born, I was sure I didn’t want a sister, but my grandma taught my siblings and me a song to sing on the front porch steps to welcome her. I hope my grandmother saw me tuck a small cross-stitched piece of fabric in my new baby sister’s room, welcoming her to our family. My grandmother helped me feel excited to have a sister.

I saw her care for her mother, my Great-grandma Spencer, during an extended illness. She gently helped her mother turn over, alleviating pressure on her painful bedsores. I was a little girl, and watching someone care for someone so ill made a huge impression on me. She came to town each time my mom had a baby and took care of us. Years later, I happened upon her after she brought my Grandpa Stewart home from dialysis, taking a quick nap on her couch. It was the only time I saw her take a rest. She must have been exhausted so many times as she cared for Grandpa and visited with the line of patients on dialysis, but she lived up to the phrase she kept framed in her kitchen: “Keep Calm and Carry On.”

She kept a small Christmas tree in one of the bedrooms in the house with Marine and patriotic decorations on it. She told me that she was so proud of each child’s service and sacrifices. She said that she felt David’s service to his country, and Carol and Doug’s service in the Church were equally important. I have shared her lesson with others. “There are many ways to do good in the world,” I say, and think of her.

I saved all of her cards and letters. Her letters were short, rarely about her, and almost always mentioned Grandpa or the cousins. There are no dates, either. I don’t think that she kept a journal. As I read through her mail to me, however, I see that she did take time to write about important things.

“We’re thinking of you today. Congratulations on your baptism!” (1982)

“Just hang tight until this school bit is over and it will pay off.”

“Hope life is wonderful today–after all–we only take one day at a time and do the best we can–”

“There is nothing as good as a good marriage. Make yours good!” (1995)

“I encourage you two to find and cultivate good friends who add so much to your lives.” (1996)

“Grandpa is so good to me.”

She loved and welcomed Richard. She loved and welcomed our children. When we visited her home with our little children, she handed Paige a big flag and they paraded around her backyard with patriotic gifts on their heads and in their hands.

She was always cleaning out her house, sending things she didn’t need to us. Her rooms were uncluttered and tastefully decorated. She kept heirlooms close to her, I think because she loved beauty and they reminded her of her family. She loved deeply and privately.

The last day I saw her, I played the violin at Grandpa Stewart’s funeral. I was playing Auld Lang Syne, a song she loved, which celebrates days gone by, old times, and even “Once upon a time.”

Once upon a time, I had a grandmother who showed me how to be beautiful, and shared her traditions and laughter. When I need to be strong, my Grandma Stewart is one of the women I think of. The thought of her makes me want to square my shoulders and face things. She didn’t want all of the fuss or attention that comes with death. She would be uncomfortable hearing how her life was like a light to us; how we thrived in the family traditions of parades, waving dishtowels, tubing down the river, playing the candy game, setting out fancy napkins, and laughing. But as I write this, I feel her strength and I know she understands all the good that she has done for us, and that influence remains long after a person dies.

Her influence will be felt when I take time to care for someone who is sick, elderly, or lonely. It will be felt when I decorate for a dinner party and make celebrations for simple, joyful things. It will be felt as I face difficult days, remaining calm, and as I show respect for others. I can’t remember the things she said to me as much as I can hear her laughter in my memory. Perhaps that’s the tribute that would mean the most to her.

To share or not to share

Daniel came home from EFY summer camp to many questions. “What did you eat?” (Richard) “Who did you exchange contact information with?” (Me) “What were your favorite activities?” and, “Did you participate in the talent show?”

“No.”

“What?…Why?”

I have always wanted our kids to have the confidence to play a perfected piece, with little notice, for anyone who would ask. We have pushed through many years of piano lessons and practice sessions to make this possible. So Daniel’s news was baffling to me. He was prepared! Why didn’t he go for the payoff for all his hard work?

As I blinked and tried to guess why Daniel wouldn’t play for his peers, he said he overheard some other kids practicing for the audition. They were playing two of his pieces, a bit roughly, in simplified arrangements. He decided that he didn’t want to crush their desire to play with his more advanced versions of the pieces.

I swallowed my comments about the importance of sharing talents. These words felt petty compared to the quality of empathy he showed as he stepped away from the spotlight. Well done, Daniel. Well done.

What a two-year-old taught me about the word, “Mom”

My sister and her husband asked us to watch their two-year-old for an extended period of time. I said yes even though we are beyond the toddler phase at our house. It was a challenge. It was a joy. I had no idea what a profound lesson my nephew would teach me.

To be clear, my nephew, who was adopted after many months of foster care, never forgot his mommy-daddy while they were away. I thought it was cute that he linked their identities when he talked about them. The doorbell would ring. “Mommy-daddy?” he would ask, hoping it was them coming to pick him up. “Mommy-daddy?” he would ask sometimes as I put him to bed. I always reminded him that his mommy and daddy would come back for him soon.

He had our names down, “Paige, Dan-ol, Timony, Mark, and Richer (sometimes Da),” and although he knew my name is Angie, he called me Mom. At first I felt embarrassed. I hadn’t asked him to call me that. I had never been called Mom by anyone but my own children, so the word really affected me. Over time I realized that calling me Mom didn’t diminish his love for his true mommy. He was reminding me that the title of Mom is broader than we sometimes acknowledge. It’s a title that is hard-earned and not automatic to one who gives birth. Mom is a title about influence. A little two-year old felt that influence and acknowledged it.

This experience has led me to ask, What identifies someone as a mom? Mothers nurture us, mentor us, and love us. Certainly the title of Mom is not lost with time or death. It’s not a title for perfection. Moms do their imperfect best, day after day. It’s not a title related to outcomes in others. There are many wonderful mothers of rebellious children. It’s not always a title related to giving birth. This little nephew, an adopted son out of foster care, may appreciate the concept of “Mom” more than many of us. I didn’t replace his mommy, but he saw my efforts and recognized a mom.

Feminine sacrifice and love are what makes one worthy of the title of Mom, and that is something worth remembering on this day which brings out such complicated emotions in so many women. Our mothers wouldn’t want us to be sad on this day, even if it reminds us of those we have lost, of opportunities missed, disappointments, personal inadequacies, or blessings delayed. Our mothers would want us to celebrate the feminine endurance, love, and unselfishness that exemplify the title of Mom.

Happy Mothers Day!

This song

https://youtu.be/GBvSCrRNA34

I lay awake the other night thinking about the kids. Thoughts ranging from worry to frustration and tenderness to sympathy had a carnival in my head. Dramatic catastrophic scenarios, too, came to my mind, a signal that late night thinking just kindles the crazy in me. I can’t physically pick up my children and carry them out of trouble and home to hugs like I used to. Instead, sometimes I lapse into worry. This phase of mothering is lonely and spiritually demanding. When my words of encouragement aren’t welcome, I tap into a reservoir of faith. I have a Heavenly Father who sees me as a daughter who is sometimes unaware of His acts of kindness. He is patient with me, so I can be patient with my children, too.

Better than worry is what I do each day, trying to be helpful. I shuffle down the hall early each morning and sit with the boys, to be met with unenthusiastic response. The secret to mothering teens is knowing that what I am doing is important, even if I am met with bristles and barbs. When they come home, I am where they left me that morning, but hundreds of objects in the house have been handled or cleaned since they walked out the door. Dinner is at 6. We eat together, but sometimes they are in such a hurry to get up from the table, I wonder if they tasted any of the food that went down. My kids always thank me for dinner, whether they taste it or not. They are good about that.

I think in the adolescent fog, I come across not really as a person, but a voice that reminds them to do their jobs. But I know I am more than that. I know that it takes real strength to build independent children. It takes quite an effort to keep a supply of poster board for last-minute school projects and know how to make alterations in clothing; to sit through years of baseball games and ballet rehearsals and years of schooling. It takes love to keep a light on late at night and wait for the garage door to rumble, signaling our child is home and safe. It takes two great commodities, time and self, to wait in parking lots while a child makes steps to get a new job, perform piano pieces behind closed doors, and clean up the trappings of a concert. I no longer walk them in and out of buildings, holding their hands. When they are old enough to drive themselves, I miss our talks in the car.

I know that mothering is important, and it’s a gift. However, the carrying and snuggling from the earlier years seems easier now that I have to be subtle in showing the same things: I am here, I am yours, I love you.

Timothy the Naturalist

Timothy the Naturalist 2005, 2007

Timothy’s personality and interests really emerged when he was two-years-old and we moved to Arizona. For one month we lived in corporate housing, which was a tiny apartment with a pool. Every day the kids and I would escape the narrow rooms and spend time at the pool. Daniel and Paige learned to swim there. Timothy played in the water, but didn’t spend much time there. He was more interested in the landscaping and the potted orange flowers. The older kids would stay in the pool and Timothy would get wet, climb out, and begin exploring in his orange life vest.

He fingered the leaves and petals, studying them. The pots of flowers were tall, so the blossoms were at his eye level. Little words came from his mouth as he tended one pot after another around the pool and drew his hands along the long leaves of the palm plants.

I nicknamed him, “My little naturalist.”

When he was four-years-old I took the kids on a field trip to a nature preserve in Sierra Vista where they could see desert animals. The curator/owner hosted an insect and reptile show which included a Gila monster, tarantulas, rattlesnakes, and other desert creatures. Timothy sat entranced, taking his turn with the tarantula and showing great interest in each animal. The finale of the little show was a 6-foot python, heavy and fat. The guide allowed older children to hold the python, saying that she couldn’t allow younger children to do it because it was so heavy.

Timothy knew he was smaller than the other children, but he remained hopeful that he could hold the snake. He stood behind Paige and Daniel in line. When the curator looked down into Timothy’s hopeful face which included two very blue eyes, some freckles, and round, flushed cheeks, she shrugged and smiled. She must have recognized a fellow naturalist, because she draped the python behind his neck. The snake’s tail curled beneath one of his arms and its head was poised near his shoulder. I don’t know how he could stand under the weight, but he did, cheeks sticking out with his wide smile. Later, the woman gave him a large poster of Gila Monsters and he insisted on putting it on his wall. Only a true naturalist would enjoy looking at a Gila Monster poster above his bed for 5 years.

The Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum

2006-2012

The Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum

In 2005 the realtor who listed our home in Austin recommended that we try the Arizona Sonoran Desert Museum once we moved to Tucson. This was great advice. Going to the Desert Museum became a pattern in our lives while we lived in Arizona. It was the place we tried to take all of our guests; it was fun for kids and parents. It was one of my go-to home school field trip destinations. We went there several times a year.

A trip to the Desert Museum was a sensory feast. After driving 20 minutes on the freeway and other busy roads, we turned onto a narrow, winding road. Rock shops appeared along the road as other signs of civilization dwindled. We drove another 15 minutes among cliffs and ancient saguaros, tall and haunting. Not only was the road winding and narrow, it had great dips and inclines, making it feel like a roller coaster if we took the curves and dips with some acceleration. The van would fill with squeals of laughter as stomachs dropped with the dips and turns. The smell of sunblock floated in the air as the kids prepared for the day in the sun. I could look back and see children’s eyes wide with excitement. Sometimes they would raise their hands high above their heads for the declines and quick ascents. I’d turn up the music.

We always started the day early, arriving at the Desert Museum as it opened. I loaded our green stroller with water bottles, snacks, hats, the camera bag, sunblock, and notebooks. It was quite a production, setting out for a day in this mostly outdoor museum. It grew hot quickly, so we followed a path where we knew we could find shade at the hottest parts of the day. The “museum” felt mostly like a walk in the desert with occasional docents along the way holding birds, skulls, or other desert animals. There were enclosures for animals, but only a few structures that provided shade.

Our favorite attractions were in the summer, when the butterfly gardens were teeming with caterpillars and butterflies and the monsoon rains had awakened the flowers. We avoided school field trip days by going in the summer, too. Sometimes we would stop to sketch the hummingbirds or linger and watch the desert tortoises in the early part of the day. By 10:00, we were usually very warm and we would make our way to the pavilions with air conditioning and then the ice cream parlor built out on the trail. The ice cream cones always seemed like manna, and I didn’t care that it was only 10 am because it made the grumpiness disappear.

There were mammals, reptiles, insects, spiders, monkeys, and birds to see. Our favorite animal was probably the mountain lion that had a cave where it would sleep, its face sometimes pressed up against the window for the kids to admire closely.

The mountain lion was always at the end of our ability to cope with the heat, so we would head up the hill toward the cave for the rest of the day. The cave was man-made, and you entered on a paved path. Inside there were exhibits about space and volcanoes, rocks, and minerals. Best of all, there were tunnels going off the main path for the kids to explore. These cave-like tunnels were narrow, smooth with wear, and a little smelly with mildew and stale people smells. Those who braved these narrow passageways were rewarded with a view of cave formations, great stalactites and stalagmites illuminated in golden light. I would sit at the base of these tunnels on a rock and let the kids wander and play for about an hour, hearing their happy voices echo through the corridors.

The final leg of our journey took us out of the cave past a “mine tailings” exhibit where kids could search the gravel for shiny, colored rocks. Each guest was allowed to keep one or two rocks. Serious thought went into these choices. Pockets were emptied on flat surfaces and the rocks were admired, but in the end, only a few would become ours. We stored our treasure rocks in the small compartment in our stroller. One last stop before the big hill to the parking area was the excavation area where kids would put on goggles and chip off plaster from around “fossils” of ancient animals.

The snake and insect houses were either first or last, as they were located at the entrance. I don’t know if the kids remember these exhibits as much, but there were Gila monsters, scorpions that glowed under a black light, and rattlesnakes.

The end of a trip to the Desert Museum always felt like a triumph, having conquered the elements with every device we had. The drive home often included a trip to the McDonald’s drive up window on the fringe of civilization. It was hard work being desert explorers, but we loved it. If I could go back to Tucson for a few days, I would take the kids back to this magical place. Their longer, lankier bodies may not fit so easily in the cave, and some of that wonder of childhood would be gone, but I know that they would have fun. It was ALWAYS a good day at the Desert Museum. How many things in life are like that?

The Jeep

2004, 2009

One night when Paige was seven I was driving home from a Relief Society appointment and saw that someone had placed a yellow child-sized Jeep next to their trash can on the curb. I had always thought that child-sized cars were adorable and I began to have visions of our kids riding around in this little yellow jeep. Oh, I wanted this piece of trash!

I went home and asked Richard to go and get the jeep for our kids. He walked up the street and wheeled it home while I hid in the house, hoping our neighbors wouldn’t notice that we were going through their trash. When we inspected it, we learned that it didn’t have a battery and it had some electrical problems. Richard worked on the electrical parts and bought a new battery. Eventually he got it moving. The wheels were brittle and cracked from years of sitting in the sun and the plastic was old and faded, but it could go!

Paige and Daniel loved that jeep. The motor sounded like it was screaming when they pushed the pedal, and the cracking plastic wheels sounded brittle as they scraped along the sidewalk. I chuckled at Paige who made gutsy 3-point turns, shifted gears quickly, and pushed the jeep to its maximum speed. This quiet little girl was born to race! With Paige driving, she and Daniel would raise their hands high above their heads whenever they crossed a driveway and let out a loud squeal.

Our neighbor Natalie, who was 4-years-old like Daniel, joined the derby in the evenings with her own pink and white Barbie jeep. Paige and Daniel would take turns driving our jeep. All of the neighborhood friends came out in the evenings that summer. Tien, Sadaf, Natalie, and Daniel raced past the house with a clatter, screams, and laughter. Sometimes they raced bikes, scooters, and a tricycle along with the jeeps on the sidewalk in front of our house as the sun went down.

The yellow jeep was loaded into the moving truck when we went to Arizona, but it was damaged in the move and the kids drove it a couple times around the yard before it gave out. We parked it on our back patio and the kids would sit in it, imaginations turned on high, pretending to drive.

In 2009 we bought a child-sized truck so Timothy and Mark could have the driving experience. This truck was new and didn’t have the condition issues of the first jeep. It even had a working radio. Our favorite place to let the kids drive the truck was in the grassy field a couple of blocks west of our house. There we let them drive across the grass, around the paved path, and up and down the grassy hills. Timothy and Mark were excellent drivers, but Mark seemed to like to drive it the fastest. He would also turn the radio dial until he found a hard rock station, turn up the volume, and go tearing up the hills and down.

The children, each around age nine, grew out of the toy cars. Their legs were too long and buckled up to their chests when they sat at the wheel. Jeep and Truck memories only make me smile.