Your Story Starts Here

I made her bed in the Red Wagon. I put the framed photos of us on the shelves. I applied the last bit of sunscreen to her already too-tanned self. I gave her a laminated Kissing Hand to remind her of me. I gave her the last hug/kiss/high-five of the week. I left her in the care of dear Liz and the best organization I know of for bringing up amazing girls. And I did all this without crying. Until I went to Circle B, the first cabin I stayed in at Rocky River. The cabin is amazingly redone and different — Liz said she wanted it to be like Pippy Longstocking's house, and it's a pretty fantasy of uneven shingles and cedar siding and sideways bunks. Yet somehow it's even more like itself. Over the fireplace library in Circle B Down, Liz made fabric confection that is embroidered "Your story starts here."

That's when I started crying. Because Lucy's story does start here. At least, the one she writes for herself.

P.S. She's a Cowpoke.