A Still Moon and Stars: Early Columns, and More

In early March, Michael, my nine-year-old, called me to come outside. From my easy chair in front of the television, I hesitated. It was late evening and it was chilly out there. My son came in, took my hand, led me into the backyard and up the steps to our deck. It was very dark. I could barely make out Sandi, my wife, bundled in a blanket on a wicker chair. A little further away, equally enwrapped, sat Jenny. Michael, whom I lost momentarily, had by now climbed onto a pallet bed covered w...