night driving along the Sacramento River, top of the red cliffs on the east side— we looked out upon the blanket of tiny white lights thrown across the northernmost tip of the valley floor. how warm those Redding summer nights, all the windows down, wind in our hair, a.m. radio playing early 60's folk and rock 'n roll. we drove and drove, talked and laughed, sang along with Dylan, the Beatles, the Beach Boys. at the north end of Hilltop Drive we would pull off, get out, smell the dry summer hills of grass, manzanita, redbud, oak, and pine. leaning back against a warm fender, we looked up at the black and diamond night, Altair, Deneb, and Vega herding the summer star flocks across the silent Redding skies. how will it all turn out, we asked, Kennedy shot down less than a year before, and all this trouble in Viet Nam. we wondered where we would be, where our friends would be, in ten, twenty, thirty years. college called, we were ready to go, our goals high as the night cliffs, our questions running south with the river out of town. below us the glittering distant lights of our childhoods, the familiar, dark, swift currents winding through this green, quiet town— how could we know, how could we tell, that we would never really come home again after that summer.