On Amigo Avenue, the street where I lived, our corner lot at Gilmore Street offered plenty of curbside parking for any of the cars our family owned and any car I would take home from a rental car lot. As with many days in the Valley, when the sun was setting in the west came this shimmering white light across the mulberry trees that would give any of those vehicles a shimmery gleam to our property. In the early years, Mom’s Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight Luxury sedan would catch that sheen when she arrived home. On most days, that meant things were OK in the world – even when they were not.