The winter of 1970 in the Bay Area was not something I ever expected to experience- especially since I was born in 1990. My folks scolded me every night for sneaking into the backyard whenever there was a full moon. It wasn't my fault: grandpa planted the story about the time-well in my head and it sprouted into a maddening obsession.

My hair was now curly instead of wavy and my hands reverted into the pudgy state of toddlerhood. Who was I, in this time, and why was I only a spectator? My new parents talked about the lunar landing last summer and how they hoped uncle Joe made it back from the Vietnamese jungle. I nibbled on the french fries while in my child seat, satisfied that even decades later, McDonalds was still doing it right.

The beach surf bubbled and I giggled with glee. I forgot about my new bike and ninja toys at home. This new era was swallowing me up.