I grew up in a smallish town called Needham, west of Boston and far, far away from anything resembling excitement or danger.
Then I left town and all hell broke loose.
I’m having a lot of trouble believing this happened. When I was a kid, my Mom used to freak out whenever we were two minutes late or out after dark with anything less than the National Guard for protection and I thought she was nuts. Needham was the safest. The worst trouble you could get into was stealing liquor from your parents or vandalizing the high school by “planting” a garden of sporks in the courtyard after hours. All this seems very 1950s to me now, like we used to pass the time by swallowing goldfish or cramming ourselves into a telephone booth, just to prove we could do it.
My folks are still in Needham. They’re not elderly, but they certainly aren’t expecting to have to fight off deranged intruders. My sister and I talked about it the other day and decided that they need an alarm system. And a big mean dog. And they need to move to New York City, where it’s safe.
Spare a moment of your Sunday, if you would, to send good thoughts and well wishes to Nancy Moore, who is recuperating from her injuries. It’s a sad story and scary as hell.