A beautiful sunrise broke over the eastern horizon. I was flying south in my Piper PA–12 Super Cruiser from Oshkosh, Wisconsin, on a Sunday morning in September 1992. To my left, Lake Michigan shimmered behind the shadowy skyline of Milwaukee’s downtown as I turned my attention to the westside suburb of Waukesha and its airport. And to my mother, who was waiting for me. And to a day that would warp time and space for both of us.