When I was 41, Katie was between 14 and 15. She had her own social life and she was allowed to go out at night. We agreed on a curfew time and with one memorable exception (I was expected to believe that all of them fell asleep on Alameda beach), she respected the deadline.

But that didn’t keep me calm. As I learned when I was 20, I may not be hysterical but I am nervous. Invariably I would begin to get agitated before she was even due home. Around an hour early I’d get antsy, less able to concentrate on whatever I was doing, more likely to pace around a bit or tune into the news. If the TV wasn’t already on I’d turn it on, thinking the chatter would calm me.

Not. The news is always frightening. Lately they even try to make an incoming rain cloud seem threatening in their competition for viewers. And entertainment shows, whether police or law procedurals or hospital dramas or even sitcoms: they all seem to agree in portraying life as perilous. My nervousness increased.

You know what cured me? You know the only thing that could then make me easy? Walking outside.

Really. I put my slippers on and went downstairs and opened the door and proceeded up our brick path to the sidewalk. Sometimes I’d go ten feet further, into the middle of the street. I’d look to the left and look to the right and maybe even look upward (hunching my shoulders to protect my neck).

It was Berkeley. Safe. Home. Known. And Katie was quite capable.

After a few minutes I returned to my room and ignored the TV.