It is April 24 and I am driving my pickup on Cunningham Road, a few miles east of Planada on a breezy Sunday with clouds drifting over the Sierra Nevada mountains, clear skies overhead and fields and hills still green from spring rains.
It’s a good thing that my eldest son, Casey, came home for spring break. It turns out I didn’t know how to drive, though I thought I’d been safely conveying my children around the state for almost two decades.
My eldest son, Casey, and I were standing outside the entrance to Tiffany’s at the Fashion Valley mall in San Diego. He was taking a picture because “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” is his girlfriend’s favorite movie.
Sunday will mark the end of “Mad Men,” though I suspect some networks will offer copycats for those baby boomers who are unwilling to let the 1970s go. I am oddly proud of having been a “Mad Men” fan from the very first episode, though I watched it only because it aired on the same network and night as “Breaking Bad.”
It is possible that for my son, Casey, Every Fifteen Minutes is little more than an opportunity to break up the tedium of a typical school day, though I hope the simulation will instead be a cautionary story he carries with him for a long time. For me, however, and I believe for other parents, too, it is a reminder of our worst fear, the one we pray we will never fully comprehend.
My husband, Matt, likes to make things out of wood. He hand-crafted much of the furniture in our home. He built a 2,000-square-foot shop, almost entirely by himself, to code. He constructed the shed for our goat and pig. These have all been useful, sturdy things.