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    Harmony and Carmella leaned close to me, like we were all coconspirators in the same secret plot. “The Blackshires’ dog got picked up by the dogcatcher,” reported Carmella. Mr. Blackshire and his son, Jason, a classmate of Carmella and Harmony’s, lived in the green house on the corner.
    “So?” I responded.
    “You wanna know why?”
    “Not really, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
    “Jason forgot to close the gate, and Tag got away, and Mrs. Thomson called the dogcatcher because Tag dug up her tomato plants.”
    Harmony joined in. “Jason has to do jobs to help pay the fine. We heard Mr. Blackshire say so. He’s gotta rake the yard and wash the car and stuff.”
    “He’s really mad at Mrs. Thomson. Calls her the mustard witch because of that yucky jogging suit she always wears.”
    “Tell me…do you two little snoops report my private happenings to everyone else?”
    “Oh no,” said Carmella as she and Harmony shook their heads, but they looked as guilty as cats pawing at a fishbowl.

The Meltdown
    U ntil the spring of my fifth-grade year, my family lived an existence you might see on a black-and-white television sitcom from the days of
Leave It to Beaver.
Things around my house were structured and routine for the most part. Dad went to work at the insurance company. Mom went to work at the optometrist’s office. Sometimes we’d go out to dinner on the weekend, or pack a picnic lunch and go fishing, or rent some movies. Whatever. We watched the World Series in October. We went to the Christmas parade the second Saturday in December. We attended Uncle Grayson’s annual Fourth of July barbeque and the deMichaels’ yearly summer solstice bash. Occasionally, we played a game of cards or Monopoly. Typical suburban family living the typical suburban life. Dull and reliable, but safe. No surgeon general’s warnings needed to be attached. No disclaimers. No fine print. We thought our lives were great.
    Then Dad had the Meltdown.
    Before the Meltdown, Dad was as predictable as the tides. He’d come home from work in the evening, give us all kisses, trade his suit and tie for jeans, and sit on the sofa in the family room to watch the news. We’d eat dinner, after which he’d help Mom with the dishes before wandering back to the TV, where he’d watch a crime drama or maybe a documentary, switching to the Weather Channel occasionally to see what conditions were predicted for the rest of the week. Sometimes his eyes would go glassy as he sighed to my mother, “It’ll be good fishing tomorrow…and it’s cobia season. Wish I didn’t have to go to work.” Later he’d send us off to bed with a goodnight kiss. Sometimes from my bedroom I’d hear him click the television off and open the front door. That usually meant he was stargazing.
    Then one afternoon, Dad came home from work with a box of black plastic garbage bags in one hand and a bottle of Captain Morgan Original Spiced Rum in the other. I’ll always remember that label, on which a dashing dark-haired pirate stands straight and tall with a silver sword clasped in his right hand and his left leg propped on a wooden keg. His blue cape billows behind him as if caught in a salt-kissed sea breeze.
    So there was Dad with the plastic bags and the bottle. And get this—he was singing “Satisfaction,” that Rolling Stones classic. Dad’s no Mick Jagger, but he was belting it out pretty darned good. “…’cause I try, and I try, and I try…” He paused to take a big swig of Captain Morgan’s straight from the bottle. For percussion, he beat on the box of Hefty Cinch Sak trash bags. “…can’t get no…satisfaction…” He pulled out a Hefty bag and shook it open.
    Zander, Carmella, and I followed Dad down the hall to our parents’ room. “…useless information supposed to fire my imagination…” He took another hit from the bottle and flung open the closet door. The Captain Morgan’s made a dull thump when he slammed it