I dreamed of the blue Volkswagen last night; the one that brought my family from West Texas to Southern California in 1964.  My dad was driving and smoking his pipe. My mom was in the passenger seat. She wore black Jackie Kennedy-style sunglasses, and her favorite coral-colored lipstick. The three of us kids, me, my older brother and sister, were in the back. We were all elementary-school young, and my parents had the Polaroid sheen of being in their prime.

The VW was headed down a two-lane state route that cut a straight line through farmland to Huntington Beach. The front windows were rolled down. The early morning breeze was soft and laced with the scent of orange blossoms. I had my bathing suit on. My green thongs were on the vinyl floor mat beneath my bare feet. The further we drove toward the water, the cooler the air became. I felt a shiver, but I was too excited to think about being cold. I moved closer to my older brother for warmth, instead.  He didn’t react so I didn’t think he minded. I looked out the window at the Victorian house on the left side of the road and, as always, I wondered who lived in it. I looked at the chicken farm on the right as we drove past. It was where we bought our eggs.  Then I looked up at my brother. His gaze was fixed ahead and he was content. I followed his line of sight through the front windshield to a fog bank that sat heavy on the Coast Hwy. in both directions. I thought, as soon as we get beyond it, we’re at the ocean.