The sun had been up for a couple of hours, and was just starting to warm the Southern Idaho desert as I took the exit from Broadway in Boise to westbound I-84. There is something familiar about the desert here, the wide expanse of flat, brown earth dotted with tumbleweeds. Green forest and tall mountains always felt like an implied challenge, but not the desert. The desert doesn’t feel threatening in any way.

There was some personal comfort in that warmth that morning and I began to think that everything . . .

“Daddy, the song needs to be louder!” called Novalie from the back seat. I gave the volume button a tap. “More!” she shouted with enthusiasm. Another bump of the volume.

“Is that good, Novalie?”
“Breakdown!” She screeched, almost in sync with Axl Rose, and so it was loud enough. During the piano and guitar solos, Novalie sang her own lyrics.

“I love! I love who I love!” sang her little four-year-old soul. Has she learned at this age that all songs must be about love?

In later songs, her lyrics changed slightly.

“I want to be! I want what I want to be!” She bellowed. Then I recognized the common feeling in Novalie’s various song lyrics. They’re about freedom, limitless possibility, and making one’s own choices in life.

When I look around, everybody always brings me down
Is it them or me, well I just can’t see
but there ain’t no peace to be found
But if someone really cared, well they’d take the time to spare
a moment to try and understand another one’s despair -
Remember in this game we call life that no one said it’s fair
-Guns N’ Roses, Breakdown

We never found Wal-Mart, and that was just fine with me. I was content to drive in the morning sun and learn about Novalie through her songs. The Taurus could wait for an oil change.

It was too hard not to watch the high school students as they walked past in their various groups. We occasionally watched some football as well.

We decided that it would be good Friday night fun to go to a high school football game. The atmosphere, the energy, and Novalie was sure to love all the noise and commotion. It’s her thing. Just about the time I cheered with the other Moscovites at Moscow’s game-tying 35-yard touchdown pass, I looked over and noticed that neither Doré nor Novalie was watching the game.

“Did you see that?” I asked Doré, knowing full well that she hadn’t.
“Kevin, I’ve just been watching the students walking past this whole time.”

We weren’t seated very high in the bleachers, and we were between the entrance and the student section, so we got to see a large number of MHS students up close. Most of the classic cliques were represented. It was hard not to watch them, try to guess their personalities based on what they wore and how they carried themselves, and to guess what social groups they might belong to. This was clearly the thing that most interested Doré on that night.

“Which group do you think Novalie will join when she’s in high school?”
“I am so scared about that” was Doré’s reply.

Novalie’s attention was riveted to the Moscow High School band. They were just a few feet from us, on the other side of the stairs. As they played, two female students, dressed just like hippies from 1968, danced to each song. The whole thing had Novalie’s full attention, so we spoke to her about it.

“Are you watching the band?” Doré asked.
“You can dance if you want to,” I offered.

Novalie’s thoughts were very different from ours.

“I forgot to bring my harmonica,” she said. She didn’t want to watch or dance, she wanted to join the band.