Growing up, Monday nights at 8:00 pm would find my mother and I in front of the television preparing to bawl. For the nine years it aired, it was like a ritual before bedtime for us. Almost without fail, 8:55 would find us red-eyed and sniffling. Happy tears mostly, sometimes sad ones.

What was it about Little House on the Prairie that drew me?

Little House in the Big Woods. As an avid reader, I loved that the program was based on books that were based on the real life of Laura Ingalls Wilder. I felt like I was getting to see what life was like in the early days of the American west.

The Ingalls. As the only child of divorced parents, I loved seeing a family working. It wasn't perfect, no one was perfect, the siblings argued, the children sometimes made bad decisions, but they all loved deeply, respected one another, and worked hard at their relationships. Personal growth was visible within episodes even to my young eyes.

Walnut Grove. I loved the town. It also wasn't perfect, some people were unkind and cruel (just like real life), but overall, there was a strong sense of belonging and being part of a larger family. People cared for and took care of each other. Love thy neighbor had real meaning.

I loved that there was always a lesson to be learned - by the characters and by the viewer.

I loved the emotional pull and catharsis of each episode. (We really did cry every week.) Even now, occasionally l will happen upon an episode...and still end up in tears.

I rarely watch current television programs, but a friend suggested I might really like This Is Us. My husband and I started watching season one of the six filmed, and my friend was correct. Unfortunately, we could only watch one season.

My husband hates to see me cry.

During Meeting for Worship, I often scrounged the little library for books a kid could comfortably read. There weren't many; most of the books were grownup books with no discernible story to them, but I usually didn't mind re-reading one of the few books with good stories. Sitting on the hard floor with my chosen book, I fit neatly between the shelves, my back up against the shelves that were set up across the windows, my feet pressing the bottom shelf of the shelves which formed the partition of the hallway; the wide hallway, all windows on either side, between the big, airy Meeting Room and the long, wide Fellowship Room where the piano was and where, after Meeting, they'd be setting out the food for the monthly Luncheon.

The librarian had fought the good fight for this space, half the width and the length of the hallway, a bitter fight barely won. He was a large round man with a passion for books and a concern for tent-caterpillars. He didn't like how they destroyed trees, and I agreed with him.

My other choice for not going to Meeting was to go out alone in the woods over the other side of the marshy stream that ran behind the Meetinghouse, and invent stories to tell myself among the old, overgrown fields that were partitioned into rooms by chin-high junipers, watched over by the few white pines and maples growing up from between the junipers. Stories that always had happy endings, everyone winds up friends.

I could have joined the Sunday School games for kids, but that was too many people for me. Even though they were fun, cooperative games, not the least bit like the competitive games at school, not the least bit preachy. There were just too many people liable to do unpredictable things.

Friendly Story Caravan was about my size for human company: lots of people safely contained in print, always saying and doing the same things they did last time, stories I could read over and over. Young people living in families acting from the values that I liked: fairness, kindness, consideration for the feelings of others, working towards peaceful coexistence of people from different cultures. Carefully curated stories: I look back and imagine the stories that didn't get included, ones where the settlers didn't survive the violence in the clash with the people who'd lived there before the settlements were built in the New World; ones where the runaway slave family did not make it to the first stop on the Underground Railway; ones where there was no enemy combatant with the generosity to care for the wounded soldier. Ones where the old crazy woman starved to death, cold and alone, because there was no neighbor girl with the gumption (and the sanction of her parents) to go light the fire in the witch's house when the smoke stopped coming from the chimney, and make soup and feed the old woman back to something like health and sanity.

But as a kid, I didn't question the stories that comforted me.

Every weekday at noon. I’d get to see the glistening, cut tan bodies running on the sand aligning an ocean full of waves. A surfer’s paradise.

I’d cycle on my grandmother’s stationary bike as I watched. Hoping to rip my 12-year-old body up the way Pamela Anderson’s quads looked as they busted out of her one piece.

Honestly, though. I wanted to look like Matt Brody. David Charvet’s character. Perfect abs, full pink lips, and Lucious dark hair with the one strand that hung just right above the eyebrows. Yes, I wanted to look like that!

My favorite stories were the ones that involved plenty of saves with multiple guards diving in the depths of the dark, crystal-clear blue sea. I remember they’d run a few steps into the ocean and then dive into at least a 10-12-foot-deep body of water. Must be Cali oceans, I thought.

I vacationed to Cali, Orange County, that summer. And it’s true. Malibu, Long Beach, Redondo Beach, even Manhattan Beach with the huge waves. I ran straight in with my boogie board in tow, and jumped right in. Not as perfectly as David Hasselhoff would have, or even Newmie. But I did it.

What I didn’t like were the episode where Mitch Buchannon, Hasselhoff, played more of a police officer or detective than a lifeguard. Seriously, what was the guy thinking getting involved in every dangerous situation on the beach.

Anytime a lifeguard rode an ATV, a Jet Ski, or Yasmine Bleeth was involved, it was a good episode. I loved watching them do CPR compressions and making saves. Only problem, I had to give CPR once, and instead of remembering my training I did, “1, 2, 3, 4, 5 – Breath!” It’s 30 compressions these days.

The saddest episode was the one with the shark attack. Jill went in for a save, but was taken under by what looked like a great white. Somehow, somewhere Mitch Buchannon was able to save her. She ends up in the hospital and looked to be recovering. The next day the guards walk into her hospital room, and she’s gone. Lost too much blood. She died.

I don’t have much else to say about the show other than asking how Mitch Buchannon could afford to buy his son, Hobie, a Ferrari on a lifeguard salary.

And who names their kid, Hobie?

The story of a young girl

looking for a place to fit,

finding solace in stories

especially that one bit

where the handsome prince finds her

and they fall deeply in love.

He vows to take her away

somewhere she’s only dreamed of.

But life has different plans,

and in hops the first big glitch:

promises of fame, fortune,

should she sacrifice her prince.

Someone else would take his place,

a variant of her dream

where she was loved by many,

but she would not concede.

Then came the tall dark stranger

with great mystery and charm.

Admiring her rare beauty,

he cunningly took her arm.

Promising a different life,

he led deep into the world

of great judgement, standards, shame

which quickly shunned the poor girl.

But one kind soul showed mercy,

offered her a place to go,

and welcomed her in warmly

out of the cold winter snow.

Then introduced her to a man

who’d provide security,

comfort, leisure, lavish life,

should she have him to marry.

But the girl she ran away,

being guided by a swallow

she had saved while underground

and beckoned her to follow.

The swallow led her to a glen

wherein the fairies’ bells ring.

Reunited with her prince

and was gifted her own wings.

Back then, I didn’t quite see why

I loved the fairy tale so.

Now it could not be clearer:

look closely and life soon shows.

There was never a true villain,

just those offering her new starts.

She had chances and choices,

and she listened to her heart.

I must admit that I am still 'growing up', but if I were to look back 50 years from now my answer to this question would be the same.

I was introduced to the show The Monkees the same month that Peter Tork, one of the actors, passed away. Ever since, it was a refuge for me. It was an escape from boring daily life into a world where good always won in the end, and no matter how terrible the characters' luck was, they always kept smiles on their faces - never failing to put one on mine, too.

The boys acted like a family to each other - exactly what a shy, lonely bookworm girl dreamt of having for her own. They helped ease the empty pit of friendship that not even the best family in the world could fill. They showed me what a family of friends looked like - a family that always has your back, but isn't afraid to push your limits. A second family, one not of blood, but one you can choose and in which you are chosen by others.

The best part about it was and still is the fact that they - Davy Jones, Micky Dolenz, Mike Nesmith, and Peter Tork - were so real. They kept their real names, their on-screen personalities were only slightly exaggerated from their own, and they laughingly broke the 4th wall more times than I can count.

The boys were so authentic I felt I knew them. And in watching that show, I felt I became one of their family. They became a family I will never forget, and for that I will always be grateful.

If I had ever met them, the first thing I would've told them would be:

Micky, Mike, Peter, and Davy:

Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.