Some children remember eighth grade because of a favorite teacher.

Some remember a school dance, a championship game, or finally making it through Middle School.

I remember Washington, D.C.

And beer vendors.

I'll explain that part in a minute.

It was 1974, and our eighth-grade class was taking a trip to Washington, D.C. 

I was thirteen years old, and this wasn't just my first trip to our nation's capital.

It was my first time on an airplane.

Ever.

Flying wasn't nearly as common then as it is today, especially for large groups of students like ours. For me, getting on an airplane was a big deal.

I wish I could tell you I remember staring thoughtfully out the window at the clouds, overwhelmed by the miracle of flight.

I don't, very much.

What I remember most is being excited.

I was going to Washington, D.C. with my entire 8th grade class from Washington Middle School in Peru, Illinois.

My four best friends were Lora, Chris, Libby, and Diane. Students had to split into groups of 4 or 5. The five of us ended up together in one hotel room.

140ish 8th graders.

One Hotel.

The five of us teenage girls.

One hotel room.

Several days away from home.

I don't know who approved that arrangement, but I'd like to thank them.

We had a blast.

This was 1974, which meant adults apparently had a completely different understanding of what constituted adequate supervision.

Today, if you told a group of parents, "We're taking a bunch of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds to Washington, D.C., and sometimes we're just going to let them wander around without a chaperone," somebody would call an emergency meeting.

In 1974?

"Be back later."

And off we'd go.

Groups of eighth graders wandering around Washington, D.C., exploring and having the time of our lives.

Nobody had a cell phone.

Nobody could track our location.

Nobody could text, "Where are you?"

We couldn't even text, "We're fine."

Our parents simply had to assume we were.

And somehow, we survived.

We saw the museums and monuments I'd only seen in books.

We visited the Lincoln Memorial and the Jefferson Memorial. We saw the Reflecting Pool stretching out in front of us, one of those places you recognize instantly even when you've never actually been there before.

We went to the Washington Monument.

And we walked down the stairs.

Yes, stairs.

Lots and lots of stairs.

I don't remember whose bright idea that was, either.

Walking down hundreds of steps inside the Washington Monument sounded much more interesting when we were standing at the top than it did somewhere around the middle.

Going downstairs doesn't sound difficult until you've been doing it long enough to start wondering whether the bottom actually exists.

But we were fourteen.

Our knees still worked.

We kept going.

One of the things I remember most clearly was visiting the United States Capitol.

We actually sat in the Senate gallery while the Senate was in session.

Think about that.

A bunch of eighth graders sitting above the floor of the United States Senate, watching our government at work.

You'd think that would have been the moment when I suddenly understood democracy, civic responsibility, and the enormous privilege of witnessing history firsthand.

Maybe it was.

But I was fourteen.

I'm sure at least part of my brain was wondering what we were doing next.

We also had a photograph taken on the steps of the Capitol.

Not an ordinary photograph. One of those extra-wide photographs designed to fit everybody.

The entire class. All the chaperones.

Everybody lined up across those Capitol steps while somebody with a camera on a swivel stood back and got all of us into one picture.

I wish I could remember exactly where everyone stood.

I wish I could remember what I was wearing.

Mostly, I wish I still had that photograph in front of me today.

Because when you're fourteen, a picture like that is just a school picture.

Fifty years later, it's a little piece of your life.

Of course, we weren't serious young historians every minute of the trip.

Which brings me back to the beer vendors.

There were men pushing mobile carts selling beer, and apparently my friends and I thought they were cute.

So naturally, we flirted with them. They flirted back, too.

Let me be clear.

We weren't trying to buy beer.

We were thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls doing what thirteen- and fourteen-year-old girls have been doing since the beginning of time.

Being silly.

We probably thought we were incredibly sophisticated. I'm quite certain we weren't.

I'd love to see that scene now through adult eyes.

Five eighth-grade girls giggling and flirting back and forth with grown men selling beer from carts while wandering around Washington, D.C., without a parent anywhere in sight.

Apparently, everybody just assumed we'd eventually find our way back to the hotel.

And we did.

There were museums, too.

Lots of museums.

I'm sure our teachers hoped we'd come home overflowing with knowledge.

Maybe we did.

But memories don't always keep what they're supposed to keep.

I don't remember every exhibit.

I don't remember everything we learned about Congress.

I couldn't tell you what was said on the Senate floor that day.

But I remember sitting in that gallery.

I remember those monuments.

I remember that enormous class picture.

I remember my first airplane ride.

I remember walking down all those steps.

I remember the hotel room with Lora, Chris, Libby, and Diane.

And yes, I remember those beer vendors.

Most of all, I remember how it felt.

We were old enough to think we were practically grown but young enough that the whole world still seemed exciting.

For a few days, our world became much bigger.

We weren't sitting behind desks reading about Washington anymore.

We were there.

We stood where history had happened.

We watched part of our government actually happening.

We saw things we'd previously known only as pictures in textbooks.

And then we went running off with our friends to see what else we could find.

Would I turn a bunch of thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds loose in Washington, D.C., today the way we were allowed to roam around in 1974?

Absolutely not.

Apparently, becoming a grandmother has ruined my sense of adventure.

But I'm awfully glad somebody trusted us enough to do it then.

That little bit of freedom was part of the adventure.

Maybe that's one reason the trip has stayed with me all these years.

We were discovering Washington.

We were discovering independence.

And without realizing it, we were discovering that the world was much bigger than the little piece of it we'd known so far.

More than fifty years later, I can't remember everything we saw.

But I remember my friends.

I remember the freedom.

I remember the laughter.

And I remember thinking it was one of the greatest adventures we'd ever had.

It was.

Although if you ask me what I learned from my eighth-grade trip to Washington, D.C., I suppose I could give you a respectable answer about history, government, independence, and seeing the world beyond your own backyard.

All of that would be true.

But Nana Kay has been around long enough to tell you the rest of the truth, too.

Sometimes the memories that stay with us aren't the ones anybody planned.

And somewhere in Washington, D.C., in 1974, there were a few beer vendors who probably went home wondering why a pack of giggling eighth-grade girls would stop to flirt with them.

My very best friend, from the time we learned to walk until I moved away when I was eleven years old, was a little different from the rest of us.

She had Down syndrome.

The truth is... I never really thought much about that.

To me, she was simply my best friend.

We spent countless hours together growing up.

We played board games and cards.

We had sleepovers.

Sometimes I'd eat dinner at her house.

Sometimes she'd come to ours.

We laughed about silly things, made up games, and spent our days doing what kids do best... just being kids.

We even went to the same school, although we weren't in the same classroom.

I remember watching her when she would ride the school bus.

Our bus driver was Mr. Dime.

She only lived about half a block from school, so there wasn't really any reason for her to ride the bus.

But she absolutely loved Mr. Dime.

Mr. Dime always kept a protective eye on her.  He cared about her just as much.

Every morning he stopped to pick her up, and every afternoon he brought her home.

He let her sit right up front beside him on top of a large metal box next to the driver's seat.

She sat there with the biggest smile on her face, like she had the most important seat on the whole bus.

She always made Mr. Dime's day a little brighter.

Most of the kids in our neighborhood treated her just like everyone else.

We rode bikes.

We played outside until it got dark.

We argued once in a while, made up five minutes later, and went right back to playing.

There were a couple of neighborhood kids who weren't always very nice.

Even back then, I never understood that.

Why would someone be unkind to a person who had done nothing except be friendly?

Thinking about it now, I realize something.

As children, we didn't spend much time noticing what made us different.

One kid was smaller than the rest of us.

One kid had asthma.

One could climb a tree faster than anybody else.

My friend happened to have Down syndrome.

She was simply one of the gang.

Somewhere along the way, people begin to notice differences before they notice the person.

As children, most of us did just the opposite.

We noticed who wanted to play tag.

Who laughed at our jokes.

Who was kind, or not.

The rest just didn't seem very important.

I still think that's a pretty good way to look at people.

Maybe if more of us held onto that part of childhood, the world would be a little kinder.

Some childhood memories make you laugh.

This one made me cry (and cry, and cry).

I was about ten years old when my best friend's mom offered to cut my hair. 

I had long, blonde hair that reached well past my shoulders. I loved my long hair, and I had never had it cut short before.

She smiled and said, "I think a pixie cut would look adorable on you."

I wasn't really sure what a pixie cut was, but I usually trusted grown-ups, especially my friend's mom. So, I sat in the kitchen chair, wrapped the towel around my shoulders, and waited.

Snip.

Snip.

Snip.

With every cut, more of my long blonde hair drifted to the floor. 

I remember watching it fall, but I still had no idea what I was about to see in the mirror.

When she finally handed me the mirror, I wanted to scream. 

But not there. I didn’t want to make her feel bad. 

After all, I'm the one that said it was alright to cut it.

My long hair was gone.

In its place was the shortest haircut I'd ever had.

I didn't even recognize the girl looking back at me.

I just stared.

I kept hoping if I looked long enough, somehow my hair would come back.

Of course...  It didn't.

I quickly told her I had to go. 

I said I wanted to show my mom, but I just wanted to hide in my room.

I cried for days.

My mom did everything she could to convince me it looked nice.

"It looks good," she would say, over and over.

I'd just shake my head.  

"No."  I knew better.

Then came school.

A few classmates said they liked it.

Most of them didn't.

More than one kid told me I looked like a boy.

At ten years old, those words hurt.

I couldn't wait for my hair to grow back.

It seemed like it took forever.

Looking back now, I smile every time I think about that haircut.

Not because I liked it.

I didn't.

But because life has a funny way of changing our perspective.

The things that seem enormous when we're children often become the stories that make us laugh years later.

That pixie cut taught me something I didn't understand at the time.

Not every problem has an instant solution.

Sometimes you simply have to be patient.

Sometimes you have to wait.

And sometimes time quietly fixes what nothing else can.

Eventually... My hair grew back.

And I've NEVER had another pixie cut since.

This is a true story that I never told my parents!

One of my favorite childhood memories takes me back to Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin, when I was between 8 and 11 years old.

Every summer, I'd spend weeks with my Aunt Kathy, Uncle Eddie, and my three cousins. I counted the days until school let out because I couldn't wait to ask my mom, 

"Can I go to Aunt Kathy's again this summer?" 

One of the highlights was my uncle's little red Crosley convertible. 

I know exactly what my parents would have thought if they'd seen what we were doing! I probably wouldn’t have this memory to share. 

My oldest cousin would drive that little Crosley around their big circle driveway while the rest of us hung onto the back where the trunk lid reached the seats. 

We held on for dear life, our feet almost dragging the ground, laughing so hard we could barely breathe. 

My cousin Dave was the instigator. My cousin Steve fell off more than once! Never more than a scratch, though. 

Back then, kids had a way of finding adventure wherever they could. 

But back then... 

...it was freedom. 

My cousins were a little older than I was, so when I was with them, I got to do all kinds of "big kid" things. I felt invincible. Like nothing could stop us and summer would last forever. 

I can still picture that little red Crosley. 

Every spring, I'd ask the same question: 

"Mom... can I go to Aunt Kathy's again this summer?"

I wasn't really asking about a trip. 

I was asking if I could go make another summer full of memories.