Waking up on a Saturday, I felt the air was filled with anticipation. It was a day of freedom—no work for Dad, no school, and the thrilling announcement of a family picnic by Mom! Jim, Mom’s new husband, had taken on the role of “Dad” during our time in Salome, and that’s how we had come to think of him.
Mom loved picnics. She filled a large wicker basket lined with red-and-white checks: bologna and cheese sandwiches, a peanut butter (no jelly) sandwich for me, oranges, and sun-brewed sweet tea in mason jars. Mom and Dad loaded the old Studebaker, and our family headed for adventure.
With no fixed destination in mind, Dad explored dirt roads through the expansive Sonoran desert, stopping now and then to glance at Mom. She’d shake her head, “No, not this one.” Then he’d put the car in reverse and head in a new direction, finding another dirt road and repeating this process until finally, Mom would declare, “Yes, this is perfect.” The journey was filled with laughter, shared stories, and the anticipation of a wonderful day ahead.
Mom’s perfect place always included a dry wash lined with large Palo Verde trees. If we were fortunate, we’d find a mesquite tree, which offered ample shade and a welcome respite from the Arizona sun. But we would picnic near a Palo Verde tree more often than not.
The Palo Verde, meaning ‘green stick,’ was true to its name — a spiny green trunk with branch-like sticks. Don’t be misled by the word ‘tree’ — a Palo Verde’s branches are bare, offering little shade. But it was always enough for Bobbi to spread her blanket on the scorched desert floor and serve her carefully packed lunch.
The Sonoran Desert floor is hard, dry, prickly, and home to desert creatures such as scorpions and rattlesnakes. Dad always said, “Those desert critters are more afraid of you than you are of them, so just leave them alone, and you’ll be fine.”
Water had run through these washes at some point, eroding the hardpacked desert and leaving softer, pebbly dirt where my sister, brother, and I would run to play. After lunch, we would all stretch out in the sparse shade and nap.
No longer a baby needing a nap, I worked on the math workbooks Mom had bought for me. Busy Beavers was my favorite—a thick book brimming with math problems. Solving each one brought a sense of accomplishment, and I raced to complete every page. On other days, I’d trade math for adventure, hiking the desert hills surrounding us. Reaching the top brought a similar sense of achievement, but it also offered something more—the expansive views that stretched endlessly and sparked a lifelong love of hiking.
With its stark beauty and quiet intensity, the desert became the backdrop for our family explorations. Its rugged charm etched memories of simple joys—family laughter, wide-open skies, and moments of discovery. Dad’s steady presence on these adventures made them feel even more complete. Over time, Jim became more than just Mom’s husband to me; he became my dad in every sense of the word. Even years later, when he and Mom divorced, he remained the only consistent father figure in my life—a role he embraced with unwavering love and care. These picnics were just the beginning of the bond we would share, a bond rooted in laughter, exploration, and quiet moments of connection under the vast desert sky.
Before long, those cherished moments gave way to new adventures. We packed up once more, this time heading to Phoenix to visit Grandma Sue.
On the drive to Grandma’s home, we stopped at a store to pick up drinks and snacks. As soon as we entered, we kids bolted to the toy section. There was always an aisle in every store packed with treasures. As I wandered the aisle, my eyes fell on the loveliest toy watch, complete with a matching one for your doll. It was a delightful shade of blue and looked so grown-up. Mom often dressed me in that color (which I detested—I preferred pink), but she believed it made my yellow-gold hair shine and highlighted my eyes. Though I wouldn’t have chosen it for clothes, I was thrilled that this watch would complement every outfit I had. I grabbed the package and raced to show it to Mom.
“Uh-hum,” Mom said. “It’s nice.”
“Mom agreed!” I was sure it would be placed into the shopping cart for purchase.
“But not today, go put it back.”
“Mo-oom, please,” I cried.
“Not today, Jean. Go put it back.”
Disheartened, my head sank, and my eyes watched my feet walk back to the toy aisle, the beautiful watches dangling limply by my side. I arrived at the shelf and hesitated, clutching them tightly as if letting go might sever some unseen connection. I needed these watches — they weren’t just accessories but a piece of the grown-up world I longed to belong to.
After a few minutes of staring, I carefully opened the package to get a closer look. The watches were even more beautiful than I’d imagined. Maybe I didn’t need the doll watch, but I certainly, absolutely, most assuredly needed the one that fit my wrist.
“That’s it,” I thought, a sense of determination settling over me. ‘I’ll take just this one, and Mom will never know.‘ With that, I slipped the watch into the waistband of my shorts.
At Grandma’s, I couldn’t stop thinking about the watch. It was like a secret burning a hole in my pocket, begging to be seen. But what good was it, hidden away in my shorts where no one could admire it? I wrestled with the thought until the perfect solution began forming in my mind—a plan so clever that I couldn’t help but smile at its brilliance.
While Grandma and Mom sat talking at the kitchen table, paying no mind as the kids entertained themselves in the living room, I threw the watch behind Grandma Susie’s sofa. After waiting an excruciatingly long 30 seconds, I walked by the couch and glanced over, pretending to find the watch on the living room floor.
“Mom,” I yelled excitedly, giving my best surprised yelp. “Mom, come look! Look what I found!” I grabbed the beautiful watch and held it up for Mom to see.
“Jean Marie,” Mom said, “Where did you get that watch?”
“I found it behind Grandma’s sofa,” I replied excitedly. “Will you help me lock the clasp?”
“Jean Marie, did you take that watch from the store?”
“No,” I replied, quickly diverting my gaze from Mom.
“Jean Marie, where did you get this watch?”
I glanced downward, not raising my head, and firmly resolved not to speak until I had figured out my next move.
“Jean, we do not take things from the store without paying for them. That is stealing. A person who steals is a thief. And thieves go to jail. Do you want to go to jail?
“No,” I shook my head as hot tears began to swell.
“So, where did you get this watch?”
I was not ready to talk yet.
“Jean Marie, go sit in the corner and think about what you’ve done. Come see me when you are ready to tell me the truth.”
“Ugh.” I reluctantly sat in the corner, arms and legs crossed tightly. This didn’t go as I had planned. I thought, “I wouldn’t have to be a thief if she had just bought me the watch. What am I going to do now? Why can’t she see how much I need this watch?
“Wait, that’s it!” I thought, a new plan sparking to life. My next move would be an appeal. Surely, Mom would understand how much I needed this watch if I explained everything—how I’d taken it only because she’d said no. That’s how desperately I wanted it. If only she could see things from my perspective.
But Mom was not persuaded. I don’t remember much after that except sitting in the corner until it was time to go home.
Our first stop on the way home was the store. Mom marched me to the customer service desk and asked for the manager. Then, with a tone that left no room for argument, she told me, “You have something to say to him.”
“What?!?” I thought, panicked. Humiliated, I stood there, tears and snot streaming down my face, and confessed. I told the manager that I had taken the watch without paying for it, that I was sorry for stealing it, and that I wasn’t a thief. Through choked sobs, I begged not to go to jail.
Some of the tears came from sheer embarrassment. Some came because I genuinely didn’t want to be a thief—I hadn’t thought that through when I took it. I was genuinely sorry. But some tears came because I had to say goodbye to that beautiful watch.
I would never again take something without paying for it.
Saturdays were always filled with adventure, whether exploring the endless desert roads or discovering treasures in a store aisle. But not every adventure ended as I imagined. From the laughter and exploration of family picnics to the humbling lesson of the blue watch, Saturdays became a canvas for learning about life’s more profound truths. Those desert adventures weren’t just about finding the perfect picnic spot—they were about building bonds that would last a lifetime. In those moments, Dad’s steady presence made our family feel complete, and the laughter we shared under the wide-open skies became the foundation of the relationship we would carry forward.
That day, I learned that some treasures come with a price too high to pay—not in money, but in integrity. While I had to leave that beautiful watch behind, I walked away with something far more valuable: an understanding of honesty and accountability and the kind of person I wanted to become. Saturdays weren’t just about freedom and fun; they were about the bonds we created and the joyful yet challenging lessons that shaped me into the woman I am today.

Dad, (Jim Hill) and my siblings, Mimi (Melina) and Kenny as we rest under the shade of the Palo Verde tree in 1965.

Looking closely at the bottom left, you’ll see seven-year-old Jean starting her hike to the top. c1965

Napping in the desert.


Surprise! A blue dress for my birthday!

Always in blue. Can you see why I needed the blue watch?