My son grew up in Brooklyn; he was and is a city kid. Our block was idyllic, with kids running in and out of each other’s houses—parents talking across low iron fences.

It was a meeting of the second-, third- and fourth-grade teachers. About 1986. I, in my late 20s, and my colleagues more than two decades older, as was the principal who had called the unusual meeting. In those days we never had meetings—we came in, did our job, left at 3 pm.

The one-lane wooded road was bumpy and rutted. Fifteen miles an hour was about top speed.

The movie theater was dark and cool on a warm day. I was a little tentative meeting my new romantic interest’s sister for the first time. The movie was already a big deal, but it hadn’t been on my radar.