It was a gorgeous second Tuesday in September as I started the day with less urgency than usual about getting into the office because I was going to be spending the evening covering the Democratic primary for Mayor that figured to produce the successor to Rudy Giuliani.
I made the walk to my 7-year-old son's school four days after he had issued a personal Declaration of Independence when we reached the corner of our new block by telling me, "I got this"—his way of saying that, entering the third grade after our move two months earlier from a Brooklyn apartment to a house in Queens, he could walk the next three blocks without me. I had followed at a respectful distance, having assured my wife a year or two earlier that if anyone kidnapped the younger and more-ornery of our sons, they'd probably give him back five minutes later.
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