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A number of years ago I took at shot at the suburbs, marriage and all that. While it was a great experience, the relationship ended sooner than I had hoped for a variety of reasons. When it ended, an amicable parting let her return to Southern roots while I held on to the house for a few months while it was sold. I was looking forward to returning to my old bachelor digs near downtown, which I had rented out while enjoying another life for a few years. Before I moved back to town, however, I met Missy.

In Seattle, unlike the South and much of the East, the bus is a perfectly acceptable form of middle-class transportation. During my time in the north suburbs the same cast of characters rode with me. Some of them were professionals, some were secretaries and other administrative, a few were students. Most of the riders seemed to have their own spot on the bus, sitting the same area day after day. Most of the time I found myself toward the back. This seemed to be the least crowded and offered the most promise of sitting without someone beside you. The bus afforded an opportunity to read and rest, although it still took a good hour before reaching the house.

One Tuesday afternoon in late January, 1995, Seattle had one of its infrequent snow storms. The city gets a good one every ten years or so but the north suburbs lie in the convergence zone, where the weather systems wrap around the Olympic Peninsula and collide with rain moving up Puget Sound. For those denizens who live north of the county line ...

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