It was 1955 and Mother and Dad were two pro surfers high on a wave of post-war economic expansion. As their only child I was along for the ride. Earlier that year we moved from our shoebox of a bungalow in the city to a sprawling ranch on a double lot in the suburbs. I didn’t want to leave the bungalow. It was cozy. The clank of pans in the kitchen, or the music from the radio in the living room brought the comfort of knowing someone was close by. In the ranch, one end of the house seemed worlds away from the other.

“Don’t you love all this space?” Mother would say. She’d spin around her new kitchen like the lady on television selling refrigerators. She looked like her too. The stylish hairdo and crisp cotton shirtwaist, a strand of pearls at her throat, and heeled pumps on her feet. Mother glided across the shiny linoleum floor from one counter to the next, admiring her lineup of modern conveniences—each black cord a lifeline to her new world of luxury.