I twirled around causing the skirt of my best Sunday dress to flair out in a way that delighted my four-year-old sensibilities. It was 1966 and my black patent leather Mary Jane’s made a wonderful clacking sound on the creaky oak floors of the sanctuary. Problem was, I was supposed to be sitting in my seat. My father scowled at me from the pulpit. Mrs. Wagoner, a wonderful, kindly old widow, had been tasked with watching me that Sunday morning, but try as she might, she couldn’t convince me to sit down. For some reason I cannot remember, my mother was not in attendance at the service that day.