Every year in the early ’70s, my sisters and I looked forward to our trip to Big Bear Mountain, California. Growing up in Orange County, we were unaccustomed to snow or heights, so when we were driving the winding mountain road, our mother, Martie, would start white-knuckling the dashboard. She winced and whined to Dad at every curve with a long, drawn-out, “Oh, Don, be careful!”
Her matter-of-life-or-death reaction made the otherwise dull drive quite exciting. At the same time, my sister Debbie and I would enter another round of the great American child’s game Stop Touching Me, also known as Mom, He/She Won’t Stop Touching Me. We’d finish the trip with rousing games of How Much Longer? and Are We There Yet?
Whenever we ventured up the mountain, within…
