My first mother-in-law was a minister’s daughter, a minister’s wife, a computer programmer and a mother of three grown men by the time I swung into her orbit, the young and precocious girlfriend to her middle child.

Her home in Salinas was beautifully kept. There was always a seasonally-appropriate wreath on the door, next to the grey-green olive tree. The house was cool and clean inside. Margaret was the kind of woman who had her carpets replaced before they wore out, a foreign concept to me.

Salinas had a hot dry smell, a lazy buzzing heat. I liked the place, for its difference to the coastal towns of Monterey and Carmel, but also for its proximity to those polished seaside towns. I’d dip my feet in the frigid Pacific, then return along a hot black road through lettuce fields to the warmth of the hills. A dusty sunset painted the golden hills, softly slumping, with manzanita in their crooks, and the scent of my mother-in-law’s casserole filled up her tidy house.