It is March of nineteen seventy-eight, a time of immense loss. I recall it as being a premature spring. Our intimate community of Nicosia, Illinois, was slowly awakening in the remnants of the muddy snow. Drifts of purple crocus and brilliant yellow daffodil lay in careful scheme among infinite fields; adeptly they reach from beneath the massive dormant oaks. Fragrant aromas of spring flourished in the air.