By Feature Writer Rebecca Nelson Lubin
There are things I never would have known, had I not gone to Arizona. The wonderful way the air smells – so clean and good and pure, and the way the arid desert landscape seems to grip at everything, like it is looming and laughing. I met Arizona at dawn, from the window of a train; at sunrise in a stiff leather seat where I sat with the family I was Nanning for – well most of the family. Mom and the four year old and the Baby. We were to meet the Dad in Denver, where we would be traveling to by a tricked out Rock Star bus after the train deposited us at some lonesome desert depot. Dad was a Rock Star, and I was a Rock Star nanny, out in the desert on the train tracks and on the road.
We had taken the train from California, loading up in Oakland at 8am on March 8th, 2002, the day after my 35th birthday, and a great big old birthday party that turned into a sort of farewell thing after midnight. The four year old and I sat in the observation car and watched California slide slowly past. She asked me the question that would become a daily part of our conversations for the next two months.
Rebecca Nelson Lubin is a writer and Nanny who resides in the San Francisco Bay Area. You may read more of her articles at http://www.abandofwives.ning.com/
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