“Hey, Sis, what about this one?”

My younger sister Julie and our friend Al looked up at me from the sofa where they had been cozily studying photographs from one of the old albums. Julie was pointing to a black and white photo which showed just the tops of a bunch of pine trees. Some sunlight was seeping through, and overhead was a fine, cloudless sky. Al seemed more interested in the snapshot on the opposite page, Julie as a five- or six-year-old trying on my old ballet slippers.

“That’s from Love Reservoir,” I said. “Don’t you remember the time Daddy burnt the burgers?”

“I don’t think so,” Julie said.

Al helped himself to another peek at the ballet photo. I couldn’t blame him, really. Julie was awfully cute as a kid. Almost as cute as she is now at 20. And you could see a long way up Julie’s skirt—the shadow was deep, but dented with a wisp of intriguing detail. “Looking to get some Historical Perspective?” I asked him, a bit of a grin to my voice.

Al quickly flipped the page. “Aw shucks,” he said, feigning embarrassment in a lame attempt to cover his embarrassment.

“What about Daddy burning the burgers?” Julie said.

“You were four,” I said. “We were having a picnic up at Love Reservoir.”

“Is that...” Al said.

“Not its real name,” I said. “Mommy and Daddy just called it that.”

“I think I remember it,” Julie said. “There was a big playground, right?”

“Right. You used to love it up there. The playground, and the lake with rowboats you could rent, and picnic groves all over the place, and lots of hiking trails.”

“How come they called it Love...” Al started to ask.

“Shush,” Julie said. “Pat’s gonna tell us the story.”

“It was the last picnic of the year,” I told them. “You were just about to have a birthday. I remember that because on the car ride up to Love Reservoir you kept saying how this was the last time I’d be twice as old as you.”

“I was awfully precocious then, wasn’t I?” Julie told Al. He gave her a look. She nudged his chest playfully with her elbow.

“It’s a long car ride ... at least it seemed like a long car ride then,” I said. “And when we got there, we still had to walk forever to get to the best picnic grove. I was a little jealous because on the walk to the picnic grove, Julie got to ride part of the way on Daddy’s big head. I’m sure if I’d asked him, Daddy would have carried me up on his shoulders, too, but I pretended I was too old and grown up for any of that kids’ stuff.”

“You can ride on my big head,” Al offered.

Julie used her elbow.

“And then when we finally got to the picnic grove and Mom and Dad picked out the perfect picnic table, one with a good view of everything but still secluded but not too far from the playground ... then we had to go for another long walk.”

“I remember those picnic tables,” Julie said. “Weren’t there spiders under them?”

“Not spiders,” I said, “Daddy Long Legs.”

“Yeah! Daddy Long Legs,” Julie said happily. “They had these little tiny bodies and these long flimsy legs. I was afraid of them,” Julie said proudly.

“You weren’t afraid of them,” I said. “You pretended to be afraid of them. It was a game we had at home, Daddy Long Legs, where we’d get to chase each other and catch each other and wrap our legs and arms around each other and pretend to eat each other up.”

“You’re going to have to teach me the rules to that,” Al said.

“Your elbow,” I told Julie, and she gave Al a nice big tummy woof.

“Didn’t you ever get to go on picnics at the orphanage?” Julie asked Al.

“I don’t remember any,” Al said. “They probably figured we’d all run away. Or get eaten by Daddy Long Legs. We did have an exercise yard, though.”

“Sounds like a prison,” Julie said.

“So what happened on this second long walk?” Al asked me.

“We enjoyed the scenery and worked up an appetite for dinner,” I said. “And Mommy would take pictures of just about anything that moved. You know, ripples on the pond, milkweed drifting in the breeze, that kind of thing. Mostly she’d take pictures of us. We’d walk half-way around the reservoir to the bridge. I got to pick which way we’d go. ‘Right or left, Kitten?’ Daddy would ask me, and I’d get to choose. Maybe that was to make up for not getting to ride on his big head.

“Sometimes on the drive up there I’d be debating with myself which way to choose, right or left. It was an important decision, at least it seemed so at the time, not because there was much difference—as far as I can remember the walk was pretty much the same either way. But it seemed like there WAS a right answer. Usually I didn’t know which direction I was going to choose until the very last instant. Then I’d glance up at Mommy, maybe looking for some kind of sign in her eyes, in her smile; meanwhile Daddy would have this serious look on his face, like the fate of Western Civilization rested upon my decision, and then I’d blurt out ‘right.’ Or I’d say ‘left.’ And you know what? ‘That’s just what I hoped for,’ Daddy would always say, and he’d give me this big smile, and off we’d set.”

“You always picked good,” Julie said.

“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” I smiled.

“Along the way we’d be on the lookout for sticks. Julie and I would try to find the perfect stick—we were each allowed one, but we were allowed to trade for a better one along the way. This time Julie had picked a thin whippy willow branch. Usually we picked chunkier, almost log-like branches, something that would make a big splash when we tossed it into the pond.

“‘That’s a fine-looking switch,’ Dad said about Julie’s stick.

“‘What’s a switch?’ Julie asked.

“‘It means ‘change,’’ I said. I was so proud of my vocabulary. ‘Like if you switch places that means you change places.’

“‘That’s right, honey,’ Dad said, ‘But it also refers to the type of stick Julie picked up. Something slender with a lot of give in it, so if you whip it back and forth it has a snap to it, like a whip.’

“‘Oh,’ Julie said, and she waved the stick, and the air whistled.

“‘Be careful you don’t hit anybody,’ Mom cautioned. ‘A stick like that can really sting.’

“‘Is that what they mean by a switching?’ I asked. ‘Bobby Peters is always talking about how he and his sister are gonna get a switching. I wasn’t sure what he meant.’

“‘Right,’ Dad said. ‘A switching could mean a whipping or a spanking, especially if ... well, I won’t go into it.’

“‘If the whipping is with a stick?’ I said.

“‘That’s right, honey,’ Dad said. ‘But I think if parents spank their kids, they shouldn’t use more than their bare hands.’

“‘Matty says his mom uses a hairbrush,’ I said. ‘I bet that could really hurt.’

“Julie didn’t seem to be paying much attention to this. She was too busy whisking her willow-switch through the air.

“‘Can I try it?’ I asked.

“‘No,’ she said, ‘Find your own.’

“We were almost at the bridge. I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be time to switch my chunky stick for something lean and supple.

“‘Some kids get spanked on their birthdays,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that right, Dad?’

“‘Yes, that’s a tradition in some families,’ he admitted. ‘When I was a kid we had this special paddle. Its only use was for birthday spankings. After the person whose birthday it was blew out all the candles on the birthday cake, everyone at the party got to give him one spank for each year and one extra spank for good luck. I must admit, some of those swats were pretty darn hard. There were various theories on whether it was better to tense up or try to relax before the swat. I don’t think it mattered – it hurt either way.’

“I was thinking about asking Dad if the spanking was on his bare bottom, but just then Julie said, ‘Am I going to get a birthday spanking?’

“‘Oh no, honey bunny,’ Mom said. ‘We give birthday kisses instead.’

“‘Oh,’ Julie said, and I could tell she looked almost disappointed. But I wasn’t really thinking about that, I was thinking about whether Mom ever got spankings when she was little and I was thinking about birthday kisses on Julie’s bare bottom, and just then we came to the bridge.

“The footbridge crossed the outlet which led down into Shaker Sluice. The many wooden planks had weathered raw, and to us kids the bridge seemed quite wide. Ten feet below, the water from the reservoir flowed as if in slow motion. What we’d do—we’d run out to the middle of the bridge, and we’d each fling our stick as far out into the reservoir as we could.

“We’d all admire the splash, and then we’d watch the stick flow back towards us. When it disappeared under the bridge, we’d rush to the opposite rail, lean over, and after a moment the stick would drift into view. Then a few feet further along it would go over the edge of the falls and on down Shaker Sluice. Hard to believe how much fun it was just to watch a couple of floating sticks.

“Being the oldest, I got to go first. My stick made a satisfactory splash, and then a moment later it bobbed to the surface and began its slow float back towards the bridge. We all watched in silent appreciation. We all ran to the opposite railing, and a few seconds later my little log reappeared, jaunty and dignified, and then over the edge of the little falls it fell.

“‘Bye bye stick,’ I said.

“‘That was a good one,’ Daddy said.

“‘Your turn,’ Mommy told Julie.

“‘I don’t want to,’ Julie said.

“‘She’s got to,’ I said. ‘It’s no fair if she gets to keep her silly stick.’

“‘It’s not a question of fair,’ Daddy said.

“Tell her she has to throw the stick,’ I said.

“‘It’s up to her,’ Daddy said. ‘If you want,’ he told Julie, ‘you could bring the stick back—maybe we could use it in the camp fire.’

“‘Death by fire, death by drowning,’ Mommy said, and then she giggled.

“‘Ok,’ Julie said, and she flung her stick far out over the rail. It whirled and twisted through the air and landed on the water with almost no splash at all, and then it began floating back toward us. We watched it. It seemed graceful but tentative, as if it couldn’t make up its mind which part of it should go first.

“Julie’s stick entered the shadow under the bridge, and we all rushed to the other side. We waited. It didn’t come out.

“We waited for a long time.

“‘Where is it? Daddy?’ Julie asked.

“‘I don’t know, Kiddo,’ he said. ‘Maybe it got snagged on something. Maybe it sank.’

“‘Maybe a fish ate it,’ I suggested, ‘Or a beaver. Dad, couldn’t that have been what happened? Couldn’t a beaver have eaten Julie’s stick?’

“‘You never know,’ Dad said. ‘One of the many mysteries of life.’

“Julie didn’t seem the least upset about the disappearance of her stick. ‘One of the miseries of life,’ she said as she walked off the bridge.

“‘Not miseries,’ I said, ‘MYSTERIES.’

“‘I know,’ Julie said.

“Another mystery of life was that we never walked all the way around the reservoir. We’d walk to the bridge, toss off our twigs, and then we’d walk back the way we’d come.”

“Why was that?” Al wanted to know.

“I’m not really sure. Maybe it just made my dad happy to see where we’d been. I didn’t think much about it at the time.”

“Maybe you should call up your parents, ask them,” Al suggested.

I gave Al my incredulous look.

“There are some mysteries you just don’t want the answers to,” I said. “One of them is why we didn’t walk all the way around the lake.”

“Or what’s in the bottom drawer of our night-table,” Julie added.

“Probably some kind of stick,” Al speculated.

“When we got back to the picnic area,” I continued, “We’d all go pee, and then Julie and I would go to the playground, and Mom and Dad would start the cooking.”

“I don’t remember the beaver eating my stick,” Julie said, “But I do remember that potty place. It was really stinky.”

“You would remember that,” I told Julie.

“Yeah, sometimes I’d think about peeking down into the holes, but it was just so icky smelling...”

“OK,” I interrupted. “I’m sure Al gets the picture.”

“Did you ever peek?” Al asked.

“God, you two,” I said.

“No,” Julie said, “I don’t think so, but the sound was kind of nice, the sound the pee made falling all that way, like it started, but it took a while to hit down there, and then when you stopped peeing the splattering sound went on for just that little extra while.”

“Did you ever ... you know? shit?” Al asked.

“Ok, that’s enough ... Who’s telling this story anyway, YOU ... or ME?”

Al and Julie smiled at each other.

“You’re not normally so squeamish,” Julie said.

“But right now I’m big and fat with HIS babies,” I said, pointing at Al,” and I have to pee every five fucking seconds, and, oh, just excuse me a second.”

“We’re sorry,” they said when I came back. “Tell us about the playground.” They smiled like little children.

“And you’re not big and fat,” Al said. “Just perfectly pregnant.”

“But you do have to pee every five fucking seconds,” Julie said.

Then they stood up and came over to me and kissed me, one on each cheek. I felt much better. They stayed next to me, kissing me, and doing a few other things, and I felt much much better.

“We want to hear about the playground,” they said as they sat back down.

“It was a lovely playground,” I said. “It had all the right stuff. Baby swings and big-kid swings and slides and teeter-totters and one of those whirl-arounds which makes you so dizzy you can’t walk straight.”

“Oh, I love the whirl-around things,” Julie said.

“Yeah,” I said, “But I think the slides were your favorite. I think you could slide all afternoon and still not have enough of it. You used to tell me that when you grew up you’d have the biggest slide in the world so high up it’d take almost forever to come down. I remember when you were real little Mom made me go up those metal steps behind you to make sure you didn’t fall off, and then we’d go down together and Mom or Dad would catch us at the bottom. And then you’d run right around and climb back up. After a while Mom and Dad would go off and do something else and it was ok for you to climb up, but I’d still have to stand at the bottom and catch you—I never did understand why. On this last Love Reservoir picnic you decided you were too big to have someone at the bottom of the slide waiting to catch you. I was a little miffed about this. It was a job I didn’t want to do, but I didn’t want you deciding I shouldn’t do it. I walked over to our picnic table where Mom and Dad were setting out the food and starting the fire.

“‘Julie won’t let me catch her,’ I complained.

“‘It’s ok, honey,’ Dad said, ‘Julie’s too big to be caught. But keep an eye on her, OK?’

“‘She won’t let me push her on the swings, either,’ I said.

“‘Maybe she’ll let you push her later,’ Mom said, ‘Why don’t you just enjoy the playground; don’t worry about Julie.’

“When I got back, Julie was still on the slides. I watched the way her long golden hair flew out behind her as she streamed down, such a serious look on her face, and then she’d land in a pile of leaves she’d mounded at the base of the slide. Then she’d dust off the bottom of her corduroy britches and tromp right around to the stairway and climb up and do it all again.

“In the summer sometimes this playground would be filled with kids, but now it was empty. Maybe Julie was so pleased not to have to wait for her sliding. She was going to get in as many slides as she could before supper.

“There was one other kid standing with his back against the jungle gym watching Julie. He was a thin kid, a little smaller than me, and when he saw me he wiped his nose with his fingers, then he went back to looking at Julie.

“‘Don’t you want to try the other stuff?’ I asked Julie. ‘The swings or the teeter-totter? You can come back to the slide later. Mom always says we should try everything once.’

“‘I don’t like the teeter-totter,’ Julie said. ‘You always keep me trapped at the top. You’re too big and heavy. And when you get off and I hit down hard, it bounces and hurts my butt.’

“‘I won’t keep you trapped at the top,’ I promised. ‘Come on, it’ll be fun.’

“‘No,’ Julie said.

“‘How about the swings, then?’

“‘The monkey bars,’ Julie said.

“Julie took my hand and led me over to the jungle gym. The thin boy was in sitting in the middle, about half-way up. I saw that his head was shaved clean except for a bushy tuft at the top. He looked like a seed pod about to burst. ‘I’m king of this jungle-gym,’ he said.

“‘Who are you?’ I asked.

“‘I’m Chester, and I’m seven,’ he said, ‘And I’m king of this jungle gym.’

“‘Well, Chester,’ I told him, ‘We’re Pat and Julie Allen, and we’re gods, and this is our home, Valhalla.’

“‘Huh?’ Chester said, and again he rubbed the bottom of his nose. ‘You aren’t gods.’

“‘We are,’ I said, ‘and you are a mighty king who has fallen in battle. If you do not please us, we will feast on your soul.’

“‘Huh?’ Chester said.

“Meanwhile Julie had climbed past Chester to the topmost rung, hooked her legs on the shiny bar, and dangled upside down. She let herself swing lightly back and forth, with her arms pointing to the ground, and her hair streaming down, and her shirt flopped over her face. Sunlight danced over her little belly button and her bare baby nipples.

“‘Is she a girl?’ Chester asked. ‘Cuz if she’s a girl I can see her ticks.’

“‘What does he mean ‘ticks.’’ Julie asked from under the shirt.

“‘If you’re a girl I can see your ticks,’ Chester said. This time he was bold enough to address Julie.