Wednesday, 10 April 2002 | Sliding board

When I was younger, had I had the mind I have now, I would've taken interesting pictures during my two weeks in Romania. I would've written in my journals daily. I wouldn't have "gone with" him, or him, or him. I would've learned where the brake pedal on a car was, so I could've stopped a few of those driverless cars and perhaps a few of the nightmares. I would've paid more attention.

I remember once being too scared to go down the sliding board at the pool. I don't know how old I was, maybe 4?, and I can still remember the black two-eyed box that sprayed the water over the smooth, light blue fiberglass. I'd reluctantly climbed up the ladder and, with my face next to the black box, I stared in fear at the water far below. I don't remember climbing back down, but I do remember not being able to sleep that night, regretting my cowardice, and vowing to make up for it during my next visit to the pool, which couldn't come fast enough. I did, and it was fun.

From ages 2 to 12, I lived on a paved dead-end street surrounded by forest carved with trails and with enough backyard hills to go sledding in winter. The neighbors all knew each other, the kids all played together, and it was basically a harmonious, sub-middle class enclave. So my neighbor was surprised when she watched my mother drive over their terrier, Tramp, without stopping to see if it was okay. (My mother was completely oblivious of the little dog.) Later, my mom saw my neighbor at a local store. "Tramp is dead," she informed my mother. "Oh no, what happened?" My neighbor said simply: "You ran over him."