Raised in the half-light of grace with a father and mother and brother and dog and nightly meals together and ‘I love you, good night’ every night, without fail. A world awash with the wonder of Kraft spaghetti dinners and Rod McKuen on the phonograph and the way rain smells falling through pine trees and for God so loved the world and Brian’s Song. Judged by today’s standards it looks naive, almost fanciful, a nostalgia best left to reruns. But turning back I find it deeply cunning, a time guided by love, an extended session in deliberation, a careful refusal to hurry though the shadows were drawing then as they do now. Was it a white-bread-King-James-horn-rimmed life? Those are the hyphenated categories of a fool. You see it was my life, the dream I still dream and find increasing gratitude for every day, without fail.