He'd just graduated from Yale with straight A's in philosophy but his girl-friend left him for an Iraqi Marxist. His career at college was academically brilliant and emotionally arid. He was "searching desperately for community." Walking through the streets of Berkeley in the summer of 1975, Chris Edwards was approached by a young man his age who invited him to have dinner with "the family" he lived with, "a very loving, very idealistic group of young people." He went to dinner. He was a little perplexed by his hosts' affectionate, constant smiling; but their passionate interest in him seemed like an oasis after "the verbal jousts, the endless mocking and scorning" of his Ivy League life. He was touched by the affectionate way they piled brownies on his plate. They called themselves the Family. They had a country place in Boonville, ninety miles north of SanFrancisco. "Since you enjoyed this evening so much, Chris, why don't you join us for the weekend?" That night they took Chris to the country in a yellow school bus the sides of which were painted with elephant faces. Plied with hot chocolate and marshmallows ("my boyhood favorite"), Chris continued to feel extraordinarily loved and appreciated during his weekend at the Family's farm. His initial unease with their frequent God talk vanished during the strenuous program of singing, shouting, and group games the Family indulged in throughout the three days. "Zip-a-Dee-Do-Dah.... Put On a Happy Face.... Getting to Know You.