My husband and I spent a few hours on Saturday last on a 1949 Vintage railcar that traveled from Santa Barbara to San Luis Obispo and back. I have always loved trains, but this trip was special because it was a fund raiser for the Peobody Stadium renovation at Santa Barbara High School, sponsored by the SBHS Alumni Association, so every passenger was a “Don”, the school mascot.

After the host made a few announcements over the loudspeaker, she asked for a show of hands from people in the group who had graduated in the 1940’s. There were a handful of them. She then asked to see the hands of those who graduated in the 1950’s, then the 1960’s, and so on. We were the youngest on board, having graduated in the 1980’s.

As we travelled north through Hollister Ranch I took the time to introduce myself to a few different groups of people and hear their stories. I have always been interested in Santa Barbara History, so I was thrilled to hear about their childhoods. One lady from the class of ’49 recalled living on the “poor” side of the 800 block of Anapamu, while the wealthy people lived across the street in much bigger houses (replaced now by condos). What is now the Junior parking lot was a big field that she and her friends would play in on the weekends. On school days they would hike up the steep trail to get to Jefferson School (now Santa Barbara Middle School).

A gentleman who graduated in the early 1950’s told me he had been born in a house on San Pasqual that he continued to live in during his years at McKinley Elementary, La Cumbre Junior High, then SBHS. He and his friends would walk up to the barren mesa and shoot BB guns. A dozen years after graduation he bought an acre of land on Parra Grande in Montecito for $6,000. He lives there today.

When the train arrived in San Luis for a 40 minute stop before heading back to Santa Barbara, my husband and I were two of the few who decided to walk around town. The rest of the passengers were happy to remain on the train. Billy and I traded stories of the folks we had met. Our two children are currently attending SBHS which has made us feel “old”, but after talking to the old timers on the train we felt young again.

The trip back to SB didn’t have as many conversations as the trip north since at least half of the passengers were napping. I enjoyed the view and took some time to read some literature I had brought along.

After disembarking from the train in Santa Barbara, we walked to the Figueroa Mountain Brewing Company in the Funk Zone to meet some friends who were in town from Colorado. As we entered we looked in earnest for our friends, because all of a sudden we no longer felt young; instead, we felt old. We were surrounded by 20-somethings. In fact, the bouncer who checked the I.D. of the young woman in front of us wasn’t sure it was fake or not but let her go in anyway telling her, “Don’t tell anyone I was the one who let you in”. He didn’t check our I.D.

I did not give her a name, but she was definitely a tom-bike. A beautiful shiny red Schwinn Krate with a gear shift in the middle of the sissy bar with a big black “5” on it. Yes, I know, a sissy bar in the middle made it a “boy’s bike”, but I never liked the idea of calling bikes by genders.

From Kindergarten through fifth grade (’70-’75) we lived on Sunset Drive in Ventura. To get there you had to go up Catalina Street, past Foster, past Terrace, then finally to Sunset. It was probably the steepest street in Ventura, similar to California Street in Santa Barbara. It was a little less steep between Foster and Poli, and I remember seeing the long-haired hippy guys, barefoot, zigzagging down on skateboards.

Our school’s bus stop was at Foster and Catalina, so I had to hustle my six year old butt down, down, down, Catalina to get there on time every day. One time I heard the rumble of the bus and hid behind a bush, terrified that if any of the big third graders saw me running to catch the bus I would never hear the end of it, but that is another story.

Bus service stopped after third grade, and by then I had received the 5-speed. I was so excited about being able to tear down Catalina, right on Foster then down to Washington School on MacMillan Ave. But as I entered fourth grade, my brother entered first grade, so  I had to give him a ride to school. No problem, he could hold my tin lunchbox so I could have a better grasp on the handle bars. They were the kind that came way up and out, allowing one to sit straight up. The brakes were located where the hands rested, so without one hand clutching my lunchbox I could go even faster!

Those were the days. No helmets, my six year old brother holding on for dear life with a lunch box in either hand, me bombing the hills all the way to school. It is a wonder we made it safely every time.

I loved that bike, but unfortunately my mom sold it after we moved to Santa Barbara a couple of years later. It was ironic, because she had told us a story about how pissed off she was after her dad sold her favorite bike, Roland. Mom has always come up with creative names for inanimate objects (her car was Carla, her palm tree Rustle, etc.), but those are other stories.

January, 1974. I guess mom wanted to get a quick photo of our Holiday sweaters.

I sit on my bed listening to the daily bounce of the basketball and the swish of the net coming from outside. For 15 years those basketball sounds have told me that my son was outside practicing his shots.

Many people warned me about how fast my kids would grow up. Up until now, I didn’t agree. I exhausted myself trying to be a good parent and as they grew up and needed me less and less I welcomed their increase in independence. It was a relief to be able to drop them off at the beach for a few hours, or take the dog for an early morning walk knowing they would be fine without me once they awoke. Or I could visit an out of town friend for a couple of days and not worry about putting a huge burden on my husband. Life was getting easier.

But something happened last week that finally made me agree that kids do grow up fast. My son turned 18.

He can vote. He can notify the high school when he is tardy or absent. He now has to see a non-pediatric doctor. To top it off, all of a sudden he is acting extremely mature! He is being so nice to us! He takes his sister to school without complaining! He helps make dinner and helps clean up! I do not miss the rebellious years by any means, but I realize that before I know it he will be gone.

To make matters worse (for me), all of that basketball practice paid off for him, because the same week he turned 18 he committed to a University on the East Coast to play basketball. He is so excited about his future, and cannot wait for college to begin next year. I am thrilled for him, and must continue to exude happiness and encouragement. We will both be facing times of transition. But I’ll sure miss those daily bounces and swishes.

I haven’t spent much time with my son since he became a full-fledged teenager, but neither have any of my friends with boys of similar age. I am proud of how independent he has become, but I do miss him. Thanks to J.K. Simmons, the first person to receive an Oscar last night, my son showered me with unexpected attention. During Mr. Simmons’ acceptance speech he encouraged anyone with a mother or father to reach out to them with a phone call or a conversation, the length of which determined by the parent.

As Mr. Simmons walked offstage my phone rang. It was my teenaged daughter, who was watching the Oscars at the house of one of her friends. My daughter is a rule follower, so immediately I asked her if she called me because of what Mr. Simmons said. “Yes”, she laughed.

My son had also been watching the Oscars at a friend’s house, but he waited until he got home to follow through with Mr. Simmons’ suggestion.

“Mom, do you want to go out for breakfast tomorrow?” he said. Thank you, Mr. Simmons! I felt like Snoopy in a Peanuts comic strip when he dances with pure joy because it’s suppertime, but of course I acted as if it happened all the time.

“Sure, honey. Where should we go?”, I asked casually, barely taking my eyes off the closing Oscars number.

“Jack’s Bagels”, he answered.

Mornings for most families are unlike those in sitcoms. We are not blessed with an unlimited amount of time to casually make and enjoy coffee, read the paper and converse with each other while in a mood that is more reflective of having been awake for a few hours and not having just woken up and rushing around to get out the door.

I knew his current school schedule allowed him until 9 a.m. to arrive, so I quickly calculated in my mind that if I got up by 6:30 I would have time to do the dishes from the night before, get the plants out to soak up the few drops of rain the weatherman promised the next morning, feed the dog, start a wash, read the paper, make my daughter’s lunch and get her off to school by 8 a.m. This would leave me with plenty of time to get to the bagel shop and enjoy breakfast with my son.

At 8 a.m. I stuck my head inside his door, reminding myself that the mood swings of a teenager might take effect and that breakfast might not happen. Would I accept this? If I didn’t, he would get mad at me, and I ran the risk of putting him in a bad mood for our breakfast. I asked if he still wanted to go. Even though he was still in bed he responded in the affirmative, so I casually told him I would be ready in 10 minutes, even though I had been ready for 20.

I grabbed the dog and its leash thinking that I not only could spare my son from having to drive me back home but I could give the dog his morning poop-walk from the school back to our house. I walked out the front door and was talking with a neighbor when my son emerged from the house heading for his car. I walked over, put the dog in the back seat, and got in. We headed to Jack’s, arriving at the same time as some friends of his.

“Hey, man”, each of them said.

“Hey”, my son said.

“Hi Mrs. B.”, one of them said. I panicked. He looked familiar, but I couldn’t remember his name. Did I know his mom? Had he been in pre-school with my son? Was he on his basketball team? Was he a former student of mine? Panic set in. I told myself to relax, just return the greeting. But don’t say “Hey”. Don’t try to be cool. Finally, something came out.

“Hi! How are you?” I said with my warmest smile.

We advanced in line and my son asked me what I wanted. I ordered my bagel and he ordered his. I was so happy being there with him in the bagel shop. I hadn’t embarrassed him by starting a lengthy conversation with his friends, I hadn’t asked him too many questions on the way there, and here I was about to spend some quality time having breakfast with him! I rarely ate this early, and I wasn’t the least bit hungry, but I was determined to shove a bagel down my throat if it meant quality time with my son! This hadn’t happened in a long time and I was going to enjoy every minute of it.

I glanced at a clock and saw that we would have a solid 40 minutes together, and it was only about one minute back to his school. I saw a nice table in the corner that would be perfect for us to sit at with plenty of space around it for his long legs. I was just about to head over to it when the cashier spoke.

“For here or to go?”, she asked.

“To go”, my son said.

To go? No! Not ‘to go’! Was he sure? It took everything in me not to protest. Against every instinct and muscle in my body, I accepted his answer and stepped away from the counter where we would wait for our order. I figured I was now only going to have about 10 minutes with him, so I began a conversation. The conversation I had thought about since I had awakened that morning and had saved for the time we would be sitting at a table having breakfast.

There were three main things I wanted to discuss with him, and we actually conversed about each one. Maybe not in the way I had hoped, but at least my queries were discussed. When he dropped me off six minutes later, I think I felt just as good as I would have had the breakfast been longer. Just being with him for even a small amount of one on one time was blissful.

I love my teenager and I know he loves me!

I have clear memories of getting to school. From Kindergarten through third grade I took a school bus, but first I had to walk about a half mile to the bus stop. The last 100 yards of my walk was down a very steep street. This street was carved into a hill and acted as a sort of noise tunnel. One day as I began the descent I was stopped in my tracks by the rumbling sound of the bus coming from the bottom of the hill. It had already arrived before I got there!

The next 10 minutes of my life flashed before me: I would have to sprint down the hill if I had any chance of catching the bus, and once I got there the big kids would know I was late and might laugh at me. Peer pressure at the age of five.

Instead of facing the fear of ridicule, I decided instead to leap up onto the curb and hide behind a bush. As soon as the bus (finally) left the stop I got up and headed for home. I gracefully entered the front door and expected my mom to be thrilled I was home. Quite the opposite. She was in her robe feeding my baby brother breakfast while he sat in his high chair, and the last thing she wanted to do was rush to clean him, dress him, dress herself and drive me to school.

I was never late for the bus again.