The sun is warm and bright. The sky is blue from front to back and top to bottom. From my window here in the den, I can see the top branches of the huge oak tree. The sunshine glints on its leaves and highlights every vein and stem. Gracie and I have already been outside just standing on the deck and taking in the morning.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when Saturday morning television was no longer an incentive to hurry out of bed, get my breakfast, my cereal and milk, and plunk down in front of the TV. Howdy and Sky and Boris and Natasha had been replaced for sleeping-in. My life was changing, and I didn’t really notice. Changes sometimes happen that way. Their arrival is subtle. All of a sudden clothes became important. Saturday matinees were for kids. I didn’t want to go anywhere with my family. My parents didn’t understand me. My room became my refuge. I didn’t have to be sent there anymore. I went willingly, gladly. I was an adolescent.

My mind is quick, and I have a history of wonderfully clever comments. They started jumping out of my mouth about the same time I began my adolescence. My father was often my straight man. He made comments which begged for a response, and I could seldom resist. Sometimes he’d ask questions, rhetorical to him, fodder for me. My favorite was, “What do you think you’re doing?” Never once was he happy with my answers, but I loved each and every one of them and would have grinned at my cleverness, but that would have been way over the top.

It wasn’t until I went to college that we reached an understanding, a truce of sorts.