When I was about six years old Judy first appeared with her father to appraise the pine forest that we played in each day. It was odd for us to think of losing a significant piece of our world to become someone else's home, but Judy, with her long brown braids and beautiful face won our hearts with the simple offering of a piece of juicy fruit gum. From that moment on, the arrival of Judy for the summer was part of the ritual. We'd even get out of bed and run over in our pajamas if the car arrived in the middle of the night. Somehow, in those Golden Years, Judy made our summer complete.

Perhaps my most poignant memory of those innocent years is that of our camping out ritual. A few times each summer the three of us girls and any of our guests would have a sleep out. Our favorite spot was the shrub and pine covered slope behind Judy's cabin, up the hill half way to the caretaker's, significantly distant from either of our homes. We'd convene shortly before dark and line up our sleeping bags and pillows one by one in a neat row. We'd tell scary ghost stories and watch shooting stars until slumber carried us to other realms. While sleeping, our bags with us in them, would gradually roll on down the slope, until by morning we'd awaken at the bottom of the hill, immobilized by bushes of sticky manzanita. For me, it was quite an achievement to awaken at the bottom of the hill at dawn. I usually would wake in the night and feel the crisp drop in temperature seeping through my skimpy covers. This, combined with too many ghost stories, the black sky and bright stars, drove me to run home to my own little bed hours before dawn.