You Are the Sunshine of My Life 1971 - 1979
Knock on Wood
On April 7, 1971, I kicked myself off the couch to help my mom take out the trash. At three months old, I couldn’t walk but was curious and wanted to follow her to the garage. There was a thump (thank God for the Oriental rug covering the hardwood floor) and loud wailing. My horrified mother rushed back inside, comforted me, and wouldn’t let me sleep because she thought I might have a head injury. I didn’t. Now when I leap off the couch, I risk cracking my knees on the coffee table instead of my head on the floor.
Warp Speed
My father handed me up to the lady wrangler at the tender age of two, and away we trotted down the gravel road outside the corral at the Montana ranch where my family was staying. I surveyed the world from what felt like a hundred feet up, yet remained safe as we bumped and lurched past hayfields that melted into the distant foothills. That first ride was the start of my love affair with horses and the west. Sure-footed animals with velvety noses carried me into beautiful wildernesses. In later years, I hid my tears when I had to leave.
Balded by Love
As a toddler, I loved Suzie Doll so much that the hair on the back of her head wore off and she was left with a scratchy, cropped, bristle-brush–like mohawk. I carried her around in a headlock and napped with her every day in my crib. My mother sewed colorful cotton print dresses for her and patched her worn body twice in ecru muslin. Suzie traveled in high (suitcase) style to Michigan, Montana, and California. As with love and comfort, there are possessions we can’t live without, and Suzie’s hair was the price she paid for being my everything.
