A blue and white bus grumbled its heavy body through a warm spring Sunday in March 1989, blessed as our springs are with fields as green as the skin of an avocado. Bursts of yellow daisies raised bright heads and bold red poppies waved fragile petals in the soft breeze. Unremarkable fruit trees gained new-beauty status with a froth of delicate blossoms shaken free, floating down to the fertile earth
