Autumn.

At least once every fall, my dad would take the kids to the woods for what he called a "mush hike." He called it a mush hike, because if we didn't move fast enough, he'd say "mush," and we'd go faster.

Here are four out of five Wigand kids after we stopped to talk to a horse we lucked upon. Lisa was too little and stayed home with Mom. I was probably too little, too. I remember whining a lot and dad carrying me toward the end of the day.

That was the September after my cowgirl birthday. Check out my Dale Evans hat, shirt, holster, and chaps.

The un-p.c. wild game I'm shooting with my cap gun is a Bengal tiger originally shot by one of my dad's insurance colleagues. We used to lie on that tiger rug when we watched TV. Later it hung on a wall in the basement, and its plastic gums and cheeks became our favorite place to stash our candy wrappers.

It's strange how some things that were the unnoticed background of my childhood seem extraordinary to me now. The tiger rug, the Dale Evans outfit, the picket fence, the playhouse, the baton-twirling lessons, the city park right across the street.

Fun to think about. But I got stuff to do. "Mush."