I was lucky to have spent most of my childhood in Boulder City which was (and still is) a green oasis in the Nevada Desert. My family moved there in 1944 when my Dad got a government transfer from Denver, Colorado.
It was a place of security where young parents had no fear of harm coming to their family. Growing up there meant hikes in the desert with my brothers, picnics, church potlucks, games of cowboys and indians (my brothers always got the pretend bows and arrows). I ended up with many scrapes climbing the china berry tree in the front yard.
In the evenings there was always music or a weekly series on the on the radio–my favorite was “the Shadow.” I loved records–Tex Ritter and the Sons of the Pioneers were played often . These were the old 78s long before the 45s became popular.
It was at the formica table in the kitchen where my mother served up wonderful dishes with a side of her down home wisdom. If I rushed through my meal, she would ask if I had a bee in my bonnet and tell me to slow down.
A favorite for lunch (which I would not rush through) was a bowl of alphabet soup. My brothers and I would have a contest to see who could first spell a word or our name. My name, Arvilla, (longer than theirs) was tricky and they usually won.
Editor’s note–B also stands for Baba, the name my granddaughter calls me.