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Carpenters.
    For some unfathomable reason (though, as a girl who liked to make up stories, I invented a few scenarios concerning what had brought this about) someone out there had chosen to throw out his or her entire album collection. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones, of course. Also Black Sabbath and the Moody Blues, Procol Harum and Led Zeppelin, along with folkier types of music too—Cat Stevens and Linda Ronstadt, Leonard Cohen, Arlo Guthrie and Judy Collins, Crosby, Stills and Nash, and Simon and Garfunkel. There was one unlikely component in the mix that Patty in particular loved: an album by Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner called Burning the Midnight Oil. It had two side-by-side images on the cover: one of Dolly, sitting by a fireplace, bursting out of an amazing red gown, with a heartbroken look on her face; the other of Porter, in a rhinestone shirt, raking his fingers through his yellow hair, looking equally devastated. My sister loved Led Zeppelin and Cream, but after finding that album, Dolly Parton became Patty’s favorite singer of all time.
    There were way too many records to fit in our bike baskets. We hid part of the stash, in case someone else came along and took them before we could get back for the next load. It took us three trips getting the whole collection home, and for the rest of that summer, our main activity was playing music on my tinny little monaural record player from when I was little, decorated with old Disney characters.
    We memorized the whole of Alice’s Restaurant and sang “City of New Orleans” and “American Pie” now as we rode our bikes. “This’ll be the day that I die, this’ll be the day that I die.”
    We loved how Leonard Cohen sang “Suzanne,” and though the words made no sense, we could tell it was a sexy song. We loved Donovan. We actually wore out the Crosby, Stills and Nash album with “Suite for Judy Blue Eyes.” We turned the volume up to the loudest it could go for “Whole Lotta Love,” but we liked more gentle music too. We knew Jim Croce had died young, tragically, which seemed to make it even sadder listening to the song about trying to call up his old girlfriend but he can’t read her telephone number on the matchbook where he wrote it down. If there was one thing we loved about a piece of music, it was the presence of heartbreak, or better yet, tragedy.
    â€œEvery time I hear that song, I keep hoping he’ll finally figure out the number and get another dime,” said Patty. “You know if he did, they’d be together.”
    One time, after we first brought home those records, I had asked our mother what kind of music she’d loved when she was young, and for a second, a look came over her I’d never seen before. “There was never anyone to equal Elvis,” she said. “But I’m over him.”
    It wasn’t only Elvis she’d gotten over, but every man. After our father left, it was as if she’d drawn the curtains, and all she wanted was to be left alone, with as little opportunity for loss or sorrow as possible.
    W E WERE WANDERING ON THE mountain one time—a little higher up, farther from home than usual—when we saw an amazing sight: a man and a woman running through the grass, totally naked.
    We hung back, not wanting to embarrass them, but the woman waved in our direction. The two of them walked over to us, laughing—still without their clothes on, but acting as if there was nothing unusual about this. We tried hard not to look down, at the man in particular. Though neither of these people seemed even close to shy.
    â€œBeautiful day,” the woman said. “Can you believe these wildflowers?”
    It was the season for California poppies. They were everywhere, like something you’d see on a postcard, though if this was a postcard, the naked people wouldn’t have been part of it.
    They held hands and walked off. Patty