I led a charmed life with my parents. My mother was a bell-ringer working in IT and my father was in academia. They traveled often. When I was an infant, my parents took this as their chance to take me around the world before I started school and my world became more narrow.
They took me to various cities in the US, as well as to visit friends in Europe and family in India. I learned to talk in France and made friends with a dog in Germany, who napped with me and watched over me, defining my early awareness as a fearless animal lover. My mother’s aunt had a large dog, and in my love for it I had no sense of self-preservation, even sticking my hand in its mouth, to my family’s horror. (Yet neither that dog nor any other animal I encountered harmed me.)
My first visit to India was in the winter of 1992, coincidentally coinciding with the riots that occurred that winter. Curfews were instated, and I only knew that suddenly all the busy adults had an abundance of time for me. While horrors and violence raged across the country, I was in my own little heaven. I made friends with aunts, uncles, cousins and other local children. Language was no meaningful barrier yet: I befriended the three sons of my great aunt’s maid, and played with them running around the living room and climbing over couches until we tipped one of the couches backwards and were met with my great uncle’s ire.
My parents also took me on a trip to Australia. We stayed at the Barrington Guesthouse in the middle of nowhere in the bush outside of Sydney. The place was known for its origins–built out of timber from the trees that had been felled to make the clearing–as well as the unusually friendly wildlife that surrounded the place. There were birds that would settle on guests’ heads and shoulders in anticipation of being fed, and kangaroos that would eat out of humans’ hands. They had stables full of horses, and one pony named Cuddles. I got my first experience riding Cuddles while my parents led him by the reins.
During one trip to Seattle, while my mother was busy, my father took me to climb a small mountain (he told me years later it was called the Children’s Mountain). I took to the hike with delight, and he began taking me on nature walks and hikes more frequently, much of it close to home. I became fascinated with all manner of wildlife from birds to beavers. When we saw signs that redirected our walk because a beaver dam had flooded some bridge, it was never a disappointment or a deterrent. It was an exciting part of nature.
In blueberry season, my father and I would hike in areas with wild blueberries with tupperwares, which we would fill to bring home. It disappointed me that we had to use plastic tupperwares rather than the wicker baskets I saw in my picture books, such as Blueberries for Sal. We would munch on blueberries as we hiked, play some pretend, and then go home. When my mother came home from work, she would bake some of the blueberries into muffins.
I was happy.