Our backyard was mostly dead grass and dirt, unlike at our house on 18th Street, where my dad watered constantly. In the back were a couple fruit trees: an orange tree, which was mostly barren, and a grapefruit tree. None of us kids liked grapefruit, but my twin sister and I were convinced somebody did. We climbed up in that tree—well, Becky did, as I was fearful of even modest heights—and picked a bunch of grapefruit, loading them into my red, Radio Flyer wagon. I can’t remember how much we thought we could get for them …

I hate Chopin’s “Waltz in Eb Major,” for it has brought me nothing but grief. Indeed, it was the bane of my classical piano aspirations. In the summer before my sophomore year in high school, I attended music camp at Northern Arizona University in cool, woodsy Flagstaff. It was sort of like band camp, I guess, except much hipper.