Last weekend the boys and I went home to the farm, in Santa Cruz, for what is likely our final goodbye.
They found the flying turtles— the fantastic seated scooters we discovered at Chuck E. Cheese when I was in second grade. Still ride like new. Jake and Nate think it great fun to ride them down the hill of the driveway that curves like a long, wide paved halfpipe.
Nate has that mischievous glint in his eye as he inches higher on the hill, pushing the invisible boundaries I’ve set. I see him doing it. He thinks he’s sneaky. The redwood roots have pushed up the driveway creating thrilling jumps.
They want to go higher and I sternly tell them no, not without helmets. Grandma watches high up on the dining room deck, egging them on.
I don’t mention I rode those same hills. On those same flying turtles.
With no hands.