Growing Up in Pacifica

My brother and I didn’t have toys. We had something far better. Boundless imagination. At our kitchen table, scratched from years of family dinners, our imagination took flight. On foggy Pacifica nights, we invented a new game: weaving stories about odd strangers and characters from popular television shows. We transformed ourselves into lovable personalities. Jerry, the smiling realtor on a magazine cover, became a proud disco dancer. We spun tales about the Cartwright clan saddling up Thoroughbreds on the Ponderosa Ranch.

Our kitchen became a lively comedy club between bites of Mom’s spaghetti spiced with curry powder. It was a happy home.