Waving frantically at the street car until it passed our dining room window, I slid to the floor, then rushed down the hall to watch it trundle off toward Portland.

Compared to the tiny silver trailer on a cliff overlooking Bandon’s beach, our new inland home was a castle. Formerly a general store, the two huge front rooms seemed like caverns. Massive plate glass windows looked out at a covered wooden platform; the Evergreen Station trolley stop.

Every morning the street car rumbled by just after Mama and I watched Jack LaLanne on our snowy black and white television. Once the trolley disappeared around the bend, I’d return to help Mama fold up our blanket. Oiled wooden floors stained clothes something awful, so we always used a blanket for exercising.

So badly I wanted to ride the street car into Portland that when fourteen year old Pauline babysat I begged, “Let’s ride the trolley—”I don’t remember much about that trip other than meeting some sailors down by the waterfront. And, Mama was mad as a cat when we got home. That was the only time Pauline ever babysat me. By Christmas, she had a baby all her own.