1. Freezing to death in Central Park, despite the furry deerstalker hats.

2. Becoming addicted to Webkinz in Huntsville, and then spending large chunks of the day glued to separate computers.

3. Entering our hotel room at the Paramount in NYC and learning that our room’s magnificently large art canvas headboard was blank.

4. Discovering the horror of rednecks who still talk about “them colored folks” at the Chili’s in Huntsville.

5. My graceful face-plant on Halsted Street in Chicago, followed by the nastiest black knee-bruises known to mankind.

6. Having 11-year-old versions of ourselves drawn by a man on the verge of a brawl in Times Square.

7. Inventing, naming, and drinking tasty alcoholic beverages in NYC, and repeating the process on every other trip.

8. Drinking glasses and rave teeth in Huntsville.

9. Wearing gorgeous false eyelashes in the Big Apple, but having tons more fun subsequently attaching them to our recently-drawn portrait in various arrangements.

10. Laughing until we cried over Pam’s bat story in Chicago.

My favorite toy was a big, yellow, metal Tonka dump truck.

I don’t remember receiving the dump truck as a gift. It is more like it was always there, sitting on the floor next to my lacy bedspread. I didn’t think of it as a boy’s toy, just like I didn’t know that only boys were supposed to play with Legos and Matchbox cars and mud. I was lucky enough to have parents who provided me with a variety of activities, regardless of their gender designation.

The yellow dump truck is tucked away in the garage somewhere, but I can still imagine it as if it were in front of me. The dumping apparatus creaks with rust now, having put in much overtime hauling rocks, dolls, mud, and peanut butter cookies, although not usually at the same time. The cab, with its tiny open side windows and foggy plastic windshield, is too small to fit any of my Fisher Price Little People (the kind that were skinny wooden choking hazards, not the bloated plastic kind they sell now), Barbie dolls, or even the little Lego people with the holes in their feet for clicking in place.

But I tried. I was a child who would not accept failure, so I tried cramming little figures into that cab with the same fervent desperation that drove me to nibble the corners off jigsaw puzzle pieces.

As a child, I had a problem pronouncing the letter combination TR. It came out as F. This was fine and even endearing when I was talking about trees or trains or trolleys, but not trucks. In fact, there was an incident, of which I’m constantly reminded by my mother, when I exclaimed loudly in a crowded parking lot, “Look at that big trucker!”

Needless to say, I was quickly conditioned to call my dump truck my Tonka to avoid further embarrassment. To this day, in my vocabulary, there are pickups and semis, but very few trucks.

The stores still sell the big yellow Tonka dump trucks, but they are no longer metal. Like all other toys, they have been made into plastic for safety’s sake. I’m glad kids are better safeguarded these days, but the squeaky hinges, rust spots, and sharp edges were all a part of my Tonka’s charm. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right?

Besides, the real grown-up world definitely has some sharp edges.