I remember riding in the backs of trucks, wind swirling my dirty-blond hair, dust from the road trailing behind us.  We'd bump around, yell with excitement; the biggest among us would sit on the wheel well.
Now with kids of my own, I cannot fathom letting them ride in the back of a truck.  They must be fastened into their seats as if preparing to blast off into space.  I wonder if I am doing them a disservice by being so protective.  I sometimes dream about climbing into the back of my uncle's old beater before trekking up York Hill to my grandparents' house.  Do my children deserve the same kind of dream?