When I was a kid, I once spent an afternoon reading a book under an umbrella, alongside a pond. It was a slim volume, An Unearthly Child , a novelization of the very first Doctor Who story. The author was Terrance Dicks. The surroundings were lush and green. The pond was still. It made for a pleasant afternoon. Mom and I had traveled to visit an old college friend of hers. I forget where we went exactly, or who the friend was. What sticks in the memory is that she lived in a house by a pond. As the two adults began to talk in earnest, catching-up on life and what not, I had no desire to listen to them talk. The book mom had recently purchased for me was calling my name. A huge fan of the Doctor Who television program, I'd never seen the original first few episodes, and this book was the closest I had to experiencing it. Soon, I voiced my desire to exit the presence of the adults. Mom's friend was very nice. She suggested the pond area as a reading ground. It struc