Stevie Wonder Sunday.

Weekend mornings in our San Francisco neighborhood are lively in a family-friendly kind of way. The perpetually mild weather usually means peoples’ windows are open. With houses stacked high upon steep hills, Woody and I stroll by living rooms full of bustling children, sun porches where barking dogs dwell and kitchens where NPR is broadcast loud enough to attract an audience.

It’s predictable. It’s friendly. It’s a pleasant walk through the liberal land of upper-class Californians. And fortunately, there’s one house that stands out from the rest. Originally dubbed “the Dancing Family House” by me, I noticed the place one morning when I accidentally made eye contact with two people dancing inside. It made me smile. Since then, I always check in on Saturdays and Sundays just to see if history will repeat itself.

Yesterday I got lucky.

First, I heard Stevie Wonder in the distance. As I got closer, I heard hands clapping. Then, I spotted two adults and a kid shaking their hips in the front window. While most in the neighborhood were reading the New York Times on their iPads in the dim shadow of a bouquet of fresh flowers, these guys were having a blast and making quite a scene on a sunny Sunday morning. Trying to avoid being a creep, I glanced their direction from my spot on the sidewalk and headed up the hill with Part-Time Lover running through my head.

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