The weather was unusually brisk that night in November of 1979. A cold front, the first of the season, was moving in from the northwest, announcing its arrival in the early evening with strong gusts of cool wind, followed by a cold, stinging rain. I had just turned 12 a couple of weeks earlier and decided to start reading my prized gift that year, a copy of The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien. I settled into my favorite reading spot in the overstuffed yellow La-Z-Boy chair next to the picture window in our den.  The pitter-patter of the raindrops hitting the window immediately relaxed me with their rhythmic…