DOWN THE INTERSTATE, that first Christmas in New Jersey, I was in the car with Uncle Joe at the wheel of Aunt Jane’s leased Buick. “Plum,” she was haughty for it was a superior color. My father was in a snowflake sweater in the passenger seat, hanging onto the handle. I was behind him. We watched a terrible, wonderful blizzard outside our windows—nothing was visible. I went from pure fire to a snowstorm. …