A couple of years ago, Tink took me to visit the upper scale Connecticut town where his childhood and teenage years were spent. He pointed out the New Haven train line that took his father to work daily at an advertising agency in New York City. The gas station, where he once worked as a teenager, is still standing. It was there that he gassed cars, wiped windshields, checked the oil and saved his money to buy his first car. His elementary school with the totem pole is still there, both the school and pole. The small town is a picturesque place of rolling, green, perfectly manicured lawns, rock walls built during early America, and two-story Federalist homes. In the entire county, I doubt there is even one trailer park or a single trailer. It is a coastal town which is where Tink learned to love the smell of a marsh and how the sun lights it romantically at various times of the day. He pulled the car slowly into the parking lot of a beach club where he and his siblings spent most of their childhood summer days, running, laughing, splashing and charging lunches and snacks to their mother’s account.