Back at the office, thoughts of home led to a memory of a day at the beach with my parents. I couldn’t have been much older than seven. As we traipsed across the hot sand, my mother’s wavy blonde hair and tiny blue bikini turned lots of heads. She wore bright red lipstick, Jackie O−style sunglasses, and an infectious smile. My dad unfurled the blanket and planted a tattered pink umbrella in the sand with the authority of Admiral Perry staking a claim on the North Pole. He stripped off his yellow T-shirt to expose a pale, but healthy-looking set of pecs.
“Well, kid,” he said. “Ready to hit the water?”
I shook my head no, knowing how cold that first contact would be, but he grabbed me and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Carrying me kicking and squealing the whole way, he
