It was the first week of June of 1979, and every day illustrated those described in a
travel brochure as ‘perfect’ Southern California weather. I didn’t begrudge our dogs’
eagerness to their daily walk around the block and usually took my time, in order to fully
enjoy the pristine landscaping of my neighbors’ yards and color-coded gardens in rows or
sections of complementary hues.
On one of these walks, I reached the final fifty yards or so from the house and heard
my girls shouting for my attention. “Mommy. Mom. Hurry! Ian is on the phone waiting
for you!”
“Let him wait,” I said, shouting back the first reply that came to mind. I didn’t increase
my pace one whit. When I reached the yard, I stooped to pat and play with the dogs,
keeping to our customary routine. My daughters watched me from the steps. Finally, I
strolled into the house, stopping to drop a kiss onto the foreheads of my
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