Caps In those days, I knew nothing at all, yet inhabited my body fully, the sweetness of life gobbled like candy, licorice whips, wax lips we wore to imitate full-blooded women. Necco wafers were our simple religion, a chalked hopscotch trail our initiation rite. What I remember most of those lush summers is the eternal uncurling of weeks, the rolls of red caps, strips of tiny detonations made for boys' toy guns, hammered on concrete, one pock by one, the tightly locked bubbles releasing a girl-thrilling scent of gunpowder and danger. Squatting, bare kneed, we bang, bang, banged a message to the manmade world: I am here, making noise and stink, a girl with a man's hammer, unwrapping the rules that wrap the world too tight. Greta Bolger The Christmas she was eight, Greta Bolger (gsbolger@bolgerandbattle.com) received both a baby buggy and two six guns in a holster from Santa. Her androgyny has its roots in such wanton acts of gift-giving.