Fly like a butterfly sting like a bee
When I was a child growing up on MacINNES St. in the frozen northern town of Anchorage, Alaska, my world seemed like a world unto itself. It was a clearly defined nation state with borders I needed a passport stamp from my parents to cross. Wide roads acting as frontiers ringed the nation with seemingly impenetrable traffic. Around my house there was a vast menagerie of streets that seemed to wind their way through all forms of terrain, perfect for a bicycle. There were hills, gravel areas, circles that safely went around and returned to where they started. Best of all, there were trails that skirted houses. They led to areas that seemed vast and wild. We gave them names like Burlington Woods and the Swamp near Geneva Woods. Each had their own characteristics, places filled with secret trails, hiding spots and rafts of old wood. These were the National Parks of our country, places where kids were kids and parents were a distant shout from a porch calling for dinner. My so