When I was the age my little girl is now, I took my first flight from Dallas to California.  It was my eighth summer and, with the blind confidence of youth, I had no qualms about where I was headed.  I can still remember the outfit I was wearing and how in awe my parents and I were of the new, big international airport that was just five years old.  The monorails looked so sleek and everything was shiny.  I hugged my folks and boarded the plane as if I’d done it a thousand times.  It was an afternoon flight and as we took off I was surprised to discover land was parceled off into neat little squares which became smaller and smaller as we ascended.  I know I had a window seat but I cannot recall if people were next to me.  I just knew I was going to visit my uncle and his family; the only blood relations I had in the world besides my parents.  My beloved grandmother had passed away the day after Christmas the year before.  That’s when I recall meeting Uncle Johnny.  He had nicknames for everyone and he’d dubbed me “Miss Nut.”  He greeted me as I descended the steps from the plane directly onto the runway and presented me with my very first camera.  It was a Kodak Flip Flash and it came inside a brown leather carrying case which I proudly wore cross body.  I have so many memories of that trip … both vague and strong.  My aunt had a lazy Susan at the table and I thought it was the most amazing thing in the whole world.  I remember my first cousin Mike taking me through the redwoods on his motorcycle and how exhilarating it was.  We were so free.  I can still recall the rush of wind on my face and the smell of damp earth as light streamed through the trees like rays lighting up a stained glass window.  There were hairpin turns from dizzying heights and I held on to his waist thinking it was the greatest thing in the world.  Combined with the awe inspiring height and jaw dropping circumference of the trees, it left an indelible mark upon my soul.  It remains to this day one of my fondest memories.  I met my second cousins during my stay and the boys (just slightly older) wanted to ride their dirt bikes.  Their mother asked if I would rather visit with a neighbor who was a little girl about my age.  Her name was Julee and she had white blonde hair and incredibly blue eyes.  Turns out we had the same “blue jean” record player and she had just gotten the album to the new hit movie “Grease.”  I think I must have spent only a couple of hours there but I instantly liked her and recall her being very kind.  Before I left we somehow decided we’d be penpals.  In third grade, the same grade my girl is in now, I remember we wrote back and forth.  My mother taught me how to properly address a letter and it was such a thrill when I got something from my penpal in the mail.  At some point we lost touch.  When I got married, the children from the oldest boy riding his dirt bike all those years ago were in my wedding and served as the flower girl and ring bearer.  Somehow my former penpal saw me on Facebook and we joyfully reunited.  She lives just thirty minutes away from me and became the mother of four.  Talking to her on the phone was surreal:  it was if time had never stopped but we also caught up on the past four decades of each other’s lives.  Ironically, with Covid, my little girl has now become penpals with her neighborhood friend.  And so the cycles of life and time continue much like the redwood forests I love.  My penpal posted this picture of me from the year we’d written each other.  The color has faded with time but I recognized the gap between my front teeth is the very same one my little girl has now.  The American author Harriett Jackson Brown Jr. said, “Remember that a gesture of friendship, no matter how small, is always appreciated.”  That small gesture of friendship offered to me over forty years ago remains not only appreciated but cherished.  I hope one day my daughter will value the gesture of being penpals.