Her father was a sheetmetal man, a deer hunter, a builder, a compulsive worker. He was a British Mexican, family in California before the Spanish granted the land they lived on, El Rancho Santa Margarita. Her mother was an English Icelander, family here before the Declaration of Independence was signed by George Walton. She tried to be a successful housewife, designed clothes, costumes and houses. She watched a lot of TV especially the news and anything about the space program. She made oil paintings in the garage no one saw until years later. After Ruth's father died, her mother worked for space program engineers, drawing on a moniter. She was a proud woman who kept to herself.

In nineteen fifty-eight, Ruth's big-faced, white-haired great grandfather died. He was a doctor with a parrot named Polly. She was afraid of them both. When the family gathered at the house on the hill in Berkeley to choose and gather treasures, Ruth went straight to the basement piano room. One had to descend a steep dark stairway, holding onto the walls. She thought about Hell being down, and how long the stairway was. But at the bottom, blinding sunlight flooded through the french doors that led to a garden running farther down the hill and it looked like Heaven. This was the kind of surprise she liked to think about.

When the grownups were nearly done, Ruth's momma came down the stairway asking did she want to go with her to the garden shed to find the cupids? An invitation, a small adventure. Yes. Out the french doors, around the edge of the building to a dirt path, very unlike all the pristine places this house was made of. Pulling a squeeky shed door ajar, they hunted in the darkness for the cupids, a little girl, maybe two feet high and a boy, both made of shiney brown metal.

They found the girl first, a baby really, fleshy and naked but for a drape, wings under her shoulders. Beautiful lips, lovely dimpled hands and legs. Her hands were slightly lifted, one holding a thick bronze letter between her thumb and forefinger, guarded by a small bird perched on her wrist. The fingers of her other hand stretched like a lady's for tea. She looked to be listening to a secret or about to tell one, chin slightly lifted, face turned at an angle. “Cupid's Messenger” by August Moreau. She was glorious glowing in the dark basement. Her companion was there too, in the dust, dented. Ruth's momma didn't take him.

The bronze girl was brought home and the dirt cleaned. She was placed on the wooden mantle. So wonderfully indifferent to any life around her, she was beautiful, sweet and lively. Poised to take another step, deliver the letter. This is where Ruth learned what sculpture is.