Dad always had a junk car. It was his commute to and from the carrier, the hangar, the runway, the maintenance deck – from wherever his work as a naval aviator had left him that day. Hearing his most recent clattering wreck pull in, I’d jump away from the windowsill to welcome him home with…

We were getting accustomed to the San Francisco peninsula. After a couple of temporary crashes we found Brentwood Street neatly tucked away in Los Altos. Brownie had become ‘my dog’ since moving away from the Chesapeake. Jumping up on my rollaway bed or sleeping at my feet, his soulful brown eyes spoke volumes. He was…

Dad rented an old ramshackle hacienda in Los Altos Hills – 25 acres with live oaks, grape arbors, apricot trees, wild oats, and an old mare named Babe who we could ride bareback if we kept her shod and watered.  That is, we could ride Babe bareback – if Babe felt like it.  She had…

Saying good-bye to Los Altos Hills was hard.  We’d been far out in the country and – save some minor inconveniences – we loved it.  Mom bemoaned at one point that she and Babe were the only females “within a mile radius.” Still, we relished being so independent and our family was forged in this…