My mother died when I was just 15. It still surprises me a bit to realize that I have now outlived her by nearly three years, and that I have experienced joys she never did: seeing my oldest daughter off on her first date and formal dance, watching her graduate from high school and then college and, just last May, getting married. To my teenaged eyes Mom could at times be very uncool and old fashioned (and very strict!), and I’m sure my own daughters see me that way sometimes. I wonder if Mom felt as young inside as I do now, in spite of what the mirror or the calendar says. Our relationship was, if not completely free of turbulence (I was, after all, a teenage girl in the late 60s-early 70s), still one where we talked with each other about almost everything. At its core was a mutual respect for each other. I recall several instances when I was troubled by a difficult decision or a conflict with friends. She would sometimes offer advice but always would say, “Well, you’re a smart girl, and I trust you’ll be able to work it out.” She would ask my opinion about something — a book, a song, a political or cultural event (there was always plenty of fodder in those arenas in those days!) — and then listened to and responded to my ideas as an equal. Looking back, I realize what strength and confidence that gave me, although I was the shy, bookish, not-so-stylish girl at school. I don’t know if she ever knew how much I respected her, too, but I’d like to think I gave her an inkling now and then. I pretended to be mortified but was secretly pleased that she liked Carole King’s Tapestry album and could quote lyrics from several of the songs. I was also proud that before she became a wife and mother to seven kids, she had had a career as a head nurse at Doernbecher Children’s Hospital (a source she used for several cautionary, grisly tales of what happened to kids who did stupid, dangerous things). Two stories she shared from that era in her life gave me glimpses of the fun, daring, adventurous woman she had been (still was?!). She and several of her friends would pool their gas ration cards during World War II so they could drive the 60 miles up to Mt. Hood to ski. The roads were poorly maintained, and the group would often venture beyond what then passed for designated runs without the benefit of lifts, fancy gear or specialized clothing. After the war, she and two or three of her friends, all single gals, outfitted an old delivery van with mattresses and rudimentary camping gear for a road trip around the United States. At a time before interstate highways, cell phones or ATMs, even now I marvel at such an undertaking. My young self could hardly imagine that my mother, who rarely left the house except for church and an occasional trip downtown on the bus, had embarked on such a journey. Mom spoke of stopping at roadside produce stands in the South, deliberately choosing buys from the poorer-quality, bruised and wilted offerings from the “colored” tables while the proprietors glared when the girls refused their promptings to buy from the “white” side. I was shocked — and impressed — that my mother would do something so impudent and even potentially dangerous. I can be quite a homebody, and sometimes I really have to push myself to visit new and distant lands. I find myself growing anxious over worries about missed connections, lost luggage and other nebulous hassles. I think of my mom and remind myself that surely I have inherited at least a portion of that intrepid spirit that prompted her on her grand adventures. Perhaps the best way I can honor her memory is to get out there and experience that world she left too soon. Patty Vanikiotis, proofreader