My father was proud of his Illinois license plate number. All of his cars were Illinois 51 300, a number so low it marked him as a long-time resident of the state. Mother kept that number after Dad died, finally giving it up when she quit driving ten years later. We took family car trips in the 51 300 cars, including many trips to Minnesota to visit the uncles, aunts, and cousins in the extended family home country.  On our longest trip, we drove across the top of the US to get to Vancouver, British Columbia, and then headed back across Canada, dipping back south as we got to the northern side of the Great Lakes. Dad loved to drive. I remember the comfort of listening to Dad and Mom’s voices talking quietly to each other as I snoozed in the back seat, secure in the parental love that encircled me.

My mother used to say the baking gene skipped generations in the maternal line in our family. She was no slouch in the kitchen and I never saw anyone turn down one of her cookies. But she did not love getting her hands in the bread dough the way I do, nor do I remember her making any cakes beyond the cake mix specials for family birthdays. According to Mom, her mother was the lover of flour and baking , and true to her prediction, I came by this love of baking. I have my grandmother’s wooden spoons in the jar on my kitchen counter. On days when the air feels right and my sourdough starter is ready to go, the spoons come out of the jar and I call upon the spirit of my Mormor to guide my next bread-baking adventure.

Honey Bear has resumed his rightful place as Head Bear in my house. He was relegated to the basket of old toys for a time, but Common Sense has prevailed and he is back in charge. He first came to me when I was confined to a crib, my fellow prisoner behind the bars of safety. Later, we listened to stories, explored the jungle in the backyard, directed the lives of the toys in the box, and napped even when we didn’t want to. He saw me through measles, mumps, chicken pox, and a number of sniffy noses, yet he miraculously never got sick himself. Honey Bear is showing some signs of wear and tear, as are we all. I remember my mother in her later years sighing and saying, “Ah, the vicissitudes of old age.” Indeed, Mom, indeed. But we’re hanging in there, watching the world go by, and trying hard to hang on to how much fun we had when we were Young and Beautiful in the wilds of our Land of Childhood.