In the midst of all the memories that have crumbled and faded with the years, a few stand like crystals, perfectly preserved and shining like the moment they were created. One of mine is the first time I saw the Mississippi River. I was nine and the oldest of three squirming around the back seat of our blue and white DeSoto. “Sit up, kids, and look out the windows,” said my Dad, “we are about to cross the Mississippi River.” I sat up on my knees as the high iron bridge rumbled beneath us and when I could see that enormous expanse of murky water spreading below, it felt like the world just stopped. When we finally reached the other side and were deposited into a different state, I spun around to watch it go and then exploded into a dozen questions, all trying to be asked at once. Where does it go? Where did it come from? How far is that? Why is it that color? Can we go closer and see it? Dad did his best to answer and then said, “OK, listen carefully and I will teach you to spell its name.”