Sheila "Scooter" Young

When I was a toddler and Dad took my big sisters and me for long walks, I had to trot to keep up with their longer strides. As the youngest I begged to be included, but as I struggled to keep pace I soon tired — and there was no turning back in our family.

Dad always noticed me drooping and scooped me onto his shoulders. From that perch and with 3-year-old eyes, I thought I was looking at the entire world. I rode Dad’s shoulders in crowds too, relieved that I could now see all the people who had loomed over me just seconds before. Even as I grew, running and bicycling all over our Newtown Square neighborhood and no longer in need of “shoulder rides,” I never forgot how much I loved that glimpse of the wider world.

Mom and Dad toured Europe when I was 16 and brought me with them. Though we had a car, in my memory we walked through Europe, striding through cathedrals, up towers, and along Medieval lanes. London was our last stop, and on our first morning we eagerly set off to see the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace. But a huge crowd blocked our view — we couldn’t even see the huge bearskin hats the guards wore. With that, Dad lifted me onto his shoulders so I could watch the ceremony and narrate for him, Mom and the people around us — a first reporting assignment that set the course of my life.

All these years after that last ride, the endless vistas Dad showed me from his shoulders are still my favorite way to see the world. As Dad turns 100, in my treasured memories he is always moving through such a landscape. The horizon gleams in the distance, ready to greet his infinite curiosity, his piercing insights, and his abiding love for the universe of the written word. And he carries me with him, on his shoulders.