We tell ourselves stories. The most important stories are the ones we tell ourselves about our own life. Everyone has stories worth telling themselves. Stories that continue to interest, to instruct or caution, keep us circling back.

Settled in a small Texas Panhandle community where appearances continued to forge hardened opinions––impressions weighed heavier than facts––my young family strived to live an upright life.

Waving goodbye to Beverly Hills from the back seat of Mom’s Studebaker Hawk, next I found myself living on a dead-end street in Canoga Park among Hispanic neighbors. Ethnically diverse, the population expanded the range between poverty and wealth.

My first impression of Beverly Hills came from the picture of Will Rogers on the cover of the city’s phonebook. Will Rogers, the highest paid Hollywood film star during the 1930s had served as mayor of Beverly Hills.

Buddy showed up unannounced. Mom wondered how he found out where we lived. We did not have a phone, but he wouldn’t have called anyway. My mom looked through the peephole, hesitated when she saw it was her cousin Buddy, yet reluctantly she opened the door.