You walk in my house after work, I motion for you to sit on my soft leather couch and move the ottoman out of my way. I walk into the kitchen to get a glass of water for me and of course whatever you want to drink. Coming back into the living room I hand you your drink and set mine down near your feet.
There had been a few responses to my ad before D's, but there was something about each -- something impersonal and a bit too eager -- that had made me wary about responding to any of them.
And then came D's reply. There was something trustworthy in his tone. Patient. Not trying to rush things, but from the start, determined to be sure that I was myself comfortable following through with what I had proposed.
On June 22, 1975, Jaws, the first summer blockbuster movie, opened nationwide in 409 theaters. Earlier that day, under a dazzling blue sky filled with great puffy white clouds looking like immense sheep dogs at play, I packed my 1971 Ford Pinto with a sea bag stacked full of uniforms, a duffel bag filled with neatly folded civvies and several cardboard boxes of books.