My name is Angelica Wickersham-Taylor. I was born without the “Taylor,” in London, in 1948. I’m the beloved only child of a nurse mother and pilot father; it took two libidinous post-war years to produce me, and none came after me.

My father left the service when I was born. He became a salesman because he always had personality, and in time we moved to Leeds, where no one was happy. When the opportunity came to relocate to northern California, my parents made a quick decision, never regretted.

The move from Leeds to Larkspur was a bit of a culture shock. To say the least. Sure I was coming from Beatle country in 1966, but I was in no wise prepared for the open high school campus, the absence of a dress code, the presence of drugs. Where I’d been, if one’s skirt didn’t touch the floor when one knelt, then one’s hem was torn out. Where I arrived, boys came to school with beards and girls wore trousers. Students could go to their cars at lunch and drive to a restaurant. One could purchase a joint or a hit of LSD on the south lawn between the school and the gym.

I had a fantastic time. My world exploded open. The classes were less rigorous, so I skated by with little homework. My accent made me instantly popular. Within a month, I was dating and going to parties and being asked to help organize events.

I was cute. My small stature was well-proportioned then, my brown hair became curly in the Bay Area humidity, and Americans found all my freckles charming (they sure didn’t charm me, back then, but I’ve come to appreciate their wrinkle-concealing qualities).

My parents always called me by my full name. My new friends called me Angie at first, which I like, and then Gelly, which I hated in the beginning but came to love. I got the nickname when I discovered grape jelly. I came from the land of marmalade and converted to the most childish form of preserves. Welch’s. I also took to the Beach Boys and coffee, but it was the quick-staining purple food that got me my name. And it was my nickname that drew me to jelly shoes, when they came along a few years later. I liked them immediately, and still manage to find them and buy them and prefer them. In fact, I decided to wear my clear, most-enclosed pair today. Which led to this ankle injury. Which is why I’m now lying on the back seat of our car, as Don drives me to the emergency room and Joe keeps us company.

O-o-o-o-o-h! I wish Don would keep his eyes on the road. He doesn’t need to look after me; how typical of him – clumsy and proprietary – turning away from the hairpin road to aim his big face at me in the dark…He can’t see me no matter how much he squints…my ankle hurts but I’m as comfortable as possible, and the Vicodin should take effect soon.

In fact…I think I’m feeling it. Handy that Chris had painkillers with him. Handy and not surprising, when I remember him in high school. I am. I am feeling something. A warm fuzzy easing: it’s like a melting in the top right side of my head, like a pool of warmth radiating gently outward. A slight pleasant dizziness, like the rock of a well-paced gelding as one turns his head to the left and kicks him into a canter.

I remember riding in England. The one time I tried it here, I was placed on a big Palomino, on an elaborate saddle, and two reins were put into my left hand. It was extraordinary! I couldn’t feel the animal through that stiff saddle. I couldn’t post when the horse trotted; I had to just bounce along. I guess it makes sense to have only two reins if one is working on horseback – that way one has a hand free – but the English rig is so much lighter on the animal.