She squished her little body (all 77 pounds of it) under the seat in front of me as I adjusted my seatback and tray table into the upright and locked position. We settled in and waited — OK, I fidgeted and waited; she fell asleep. We were on our first airplane flight together, headed from Sacramento, California, to Denver, Colorado.

I was nervous, but I’m pretty sure flying didn’t even register on Trego’s freak-out meter. She’d down-and-undered before. She knew what to do.

Her little face rested on my foot during take-off. She looked up at me just once, as if to ask me what I was so worried about. You, little puppy, I thought. I am worried about how you’ll handle being 30,000 feet in the air. And crashing. Yep. Definitely worried about crashing.

A few minutes after the fasten seatbelts signs turned off, a flight attendant named Katie took a seat next to us. She asked a few questions; I launched into my “She is a service dog in training…” speech. Soon I was focused more on helping Katie (and the children in the seats in front of us who had turned around to learn about the puppy on the plane) understand what puppy-raising is and why Trego was learning how to be a flying dog than I was on my fear and worries about where Trego would pee once we reached Denver.

An hour and a half after we left Sacramento, the fasten seatbelt signs came back on and my stomach began to churn again. Surprise! Trego was fine.

I gripped the armrest; she slept. As the plane touched down, Trego opened one eye. That was the climax of the flight for her.

We waited for the rest of the plane to deboard, then made our way toward the doors. Trego showed off a little for the flight attendants, heeling perfectly down the skinny skinny aisle of the plane. As we stepped into the airport, she whined a little, asking for a patch of grass, then licked my hand: See, Mom, no big deal, No big deal.

I’m in Portland right now, the first stop on my five-week adventure. I came here for the first time a year ago and was able to see just about everything I wanted. This trip has been more about wandering around, figuring out if I really would want to live here some day.

I walked around so much my first day here that my feet hurt, especially my stress fracture. I decided to take it easy on Thursday and buy a day-long public transit pass instead of walking everywhere. Because my body is still on East Coast time, I’m out the door by 8 a.m., when not much is open.

For my morning entertainment, I hopped on the nearest light-rail and took it until I felt like getting off. Then I took it back into Portland and got off at a park overlooking the water. Once I made it back to the city, I switched to a bus, picking a route that would go past a massive forest. I’d visited the other side of the forest when I came last year, and this ride would offer a different perspective.

I told myself that for this trip, I would have no guilt about what I didn’t get around to doing. That I would be happy with whatever happened. But I couldn’t help but question if I could fend off guilt as I rode on the bus back into Portland — it was almost lunchtime and nothing noteworthy had happened.

The only thing mildly worth remembering was that this bus driver was religious about announcing the bus was moving and we needed to hold on, which we pretty much caught on to without his warning. One time he yelled to the bus as a passenger stepped on, when we were not even moving and the passenger hadn’t even had time to show his bus pass. You never realize how many stops a bus makes until the driver announces every time the bus is moving again. And at one point, he mumbled something and got off the bus, while it was still running. Then he came back a little later. We were in the middle of an industrial nowhere at this point, so I’m not sure what that was all about. It wouldn’t take much exaggeration to turn the situation into a “Saturday Night Live” skit.

I glanced around the bus at the other passengers — because who doesn’t like people watching — and that’s when I noticed the grandma across the aisle had a pant leg rolled up and was dabbing a bloody knee with a Kleenax. When I looked back again, her pant leg was down but then I saw bloody knuckles too. I’m not sure if my imagination got the better of me, but I started to wonder if the reason the bus driver was obsessively reminding everyone to hold on was because this woman had fallen on the bus.

I wondered if I should ask her if she was OK, even though there was nothing I could do. She looked like she was trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. But after she kept glancing down at her hands and knee, I rummaged through my purse and pulled out half my band-aids. In packing for a month, I included everything I might possibly need. Neosporin, anti-itch cream, medicine, deep conditioner for my hair and two bottles of sunscreen. When I made the long trek on public transportation from my apartment to JFK airport, I cursed myself for packing so much. But as I reached across aisle on the bus and asked the woman if she’d would like some band-aids, I realized that overpacking can come in handy, and uneventful days can serve their own purpose too. I’m hoping I won’t need to pass out any more band-aids to strangers on my journey, but I’m prepared for it just the same.

I was at a party last night and a couple brought their new baby girl, who couldn’t have been more than a couple weeks old. One of the wives at the party was cooing over the baby the entire night and made her husband hold her.

“Doesn’t that make you want one?” she asked him.

He did the right thing by not saying anything at all. Now me, the non-married guy, put myself in his shoes when she asked the question, and my answer without my married-guy mussel, would have been a simple, “No.”

I don’t see the fuss over a new baby, especially one that’s just a couple of weeks old. They have no personality at that age. They barely make any noises. They don’t really smile, and you can’t play any games with them.

It reminds me of the Seinfeld episode when Jerry and Elaine’s friends keep telling them, “You’ve GOT to come see the new BABEE.” Jerry and Elaine, of course, could care less to see the BABEE.

Now I’m sure some day when that’s my baby *Phog (come on, be a boy!), I’ll think he’s the coolest thing from the time he shoots out and the doctor catches him and I immediately put a basketball in his hands.

*I know I’m having a girl. I’m cursed.

And lately, I’ve even got a little baby fever myself.

My sister recently moved back to Kansas City and she has two boys, Tayte, 11, and Juleon, who’s 11 months. Tayte really took a loving to sports recently, and much of my attention when I’m back home is going over the pennant race, pitching motions and our favorite ballplayers and teams.

But lately, I’ve become more and more fascinated with little Juleon. First of all, he’s just so darn cute. With his little curls and his cute little smile, and his cute little noises and the way he kicks his cute little legs when I hold him in the air… And, yeah, he’s pretty stinkin’ cute.

And then there’s watching him grow and the changes he makes in just the week of time that goes by between my visits. The other day he was sitting on the ground, and without using his hands or a table, he stood up on his own and raised his arms in the air, showing everyone, Look what I did! I know next week he’s going to be walking, and in a couple weeks he’ll probably chime in on the pennant race.

And with every visit, I can see him getting more and more excited to see me. We’ve even started to have our “things,” like when his tall uncle lifts him in the air and flies him around like an airplane, scaring grandma and the both of us laughing about it in the process.

Now, if I didn’t know the kid and he was of no relation, I’m sure I’d think he was cute — did I mention how cute the little stinker is? — but other than that, I wouldn’t be that fascinated.

But I am. I’m so fascinated I know I’m going to have to start stopping myself when I’m talking to my buddies from slipping in baby stories between fantasy football and recapping the game last night.

It’s just that, they’ve got to come see the BABEE!

Last week I had one of those days where nothing went right. It was a Monday, of course, and by the time I arrived home I had worked up a nice migraine and wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and sleep away my bad day. I managed to get my cell phone and myself into the house, but carelessly left my purse in my car.

I recently moved back to where I grew up in, in a suburban town I consider to be one of the safest places on Earth. So when I walked to my car the following morning, I didn’t think much of the fact that the door to my car was partially open. I figured, in my hurry to end a terrible day, I had not completely shut my door. I got in, started the car, and drove about a block before I realized I didn’t have my purse. I quickly pulled to the side of the rode and frantically searched my car. It wasn’t there. So began an even worse day than the one before.

I spent the day canceling credit cards, filing a police report and being angry with myself for leaving my purse in the car over night. It was a horrible feeling knowing that most of the things I needed for the day were now gone. It was inconvenient to have to spend time getting a new license and waiting for my new credit cards to arrive in the mail. But the worse part was losing the little things that meant a lot to me. Inside my wallet was a letter from an old friend that made me smile every time I read it. Tucked in a hidden pocket was the lucky dime my grandma gave me. I was pretty bummed all week about losing these things. It wasn’t too hard to find a new purse and wallet, but it was nearly impossible to fill it. My replacement debit card looked lonely next to my new insurance card.

By Friday, I had received most of my replacement cards as well as my new driver’s license. I was in the midst of telling one of my co-workers my story when my favorite little first grader tugged at my shirt. In her hand was a thank-you note she had written to me for helping her with her work the day before. It was written entirely in pink glitter crayon. I thanked her for the letter and told her I knew just where to put it.

As I walked to my car that day, I was nearly blinded by a shiny penny lying on the ground. I picked it up and placed it neatly in my wallet next to the thank you note. Even though I could never replace the old letter and lucky dime it was nice to know that I had something to fill up my new wallet. Suddenly, the wallet didn’t seem so empty.

There is a full moon tonight, and with the fires still raging near Los Angeles, it hangs above the sky behind a veil of amber, glowing eerily against an inky blue sky. The sky is always strange in Santa Monica when fires are wreaking havoc nearby — it feels thicker and heavier, as if the smoke was pressing down on the clouds — and the streets of my neighborhood always get quiet. This part of Los Angeles settles down and grows still, perhaps in order to balance out the chaos happening close by. We are in no danger here, but can see giant plumes of smoke in the distance that look like an erupting volcano.

I moved to southern California after finishing graduate school at the University of Georgia, and whenever I told someone that’s where I was headed, I always received the same response: “Watch out for earthquakes!” Seems as though anyone who does not live in the Golden State has the impression that the earth rattles on a weekly basis around here, but I have lived on the south coast for more than fifteen years and felt just over a handful of small jolts. It is peculiar experience, absolutely, but — knock on wood — I have yet to experience a seismic shift large enough to make me run under a table. The idea of an earthquake still feels distant to me; I know I am more likely to feel one than my friend Melissa in North Carolina, but it isn’t something I think much about (until I write that big fat check for our earthquake insurance, then I’m thinking of it plenty, as the high premiums are the result of past devastation.)

The biggest disasters I have seen as a California resident have not come as the result of tectonic plates moving and rumbling. The worst damage I’ve witnessed has occurred when the devastatingly perfect storm of Santa Ana winds, Indian summer heat and human beings swirl together. One month it’s a kid playing with matches, another time college students don’t extinguish a campfire, this week it looks like arson. The worst fire in Los Angeles County history, started intentionally, destroying an area my husband and I recently went on a motorcycle ride through. The newly paved roads are destroyed, the café where we ate lunch burned to the ground, the scent of pine trees extinguished by smoke. And the fires continue to rage, not yet 40% contained.

But I also know this — that as eerie as it is to look in the sky and see ash, as horrible as it is to think about all that has been lost — it will grow back. I have driven past enough areas swept away by fires and seen bright green sprouts bursting through soil as black as coal to know it will grow back. And against the charred remains, all the new shoots seem to glow. Emerald greens, stark whites and tall, shiny leaves, as if the land of Oz had been lying dormant underground, and once the fires came through, it could be unearthed.

On any journey that involves loss, there is always room for new growth, as well as the realization that there are some things — in the world and in our own hearts — that cannot be destroyed. The fires now burn, but it will grow back. It will grow back.