When I was young, we lived on the Margolin farm in Ringoes, New Jersey. It was a dairy farm. I still have fond memories of calling the cows over from the open field in our back yard. Of course, I gave names to some of them. A few of them would slowly meander over to the white wooden fence where I stood on the other side. I would talk to them, pet them, and give them some treats to eat. Cows can be such docile creatures.
Mr. & Mrs. Margolin were very nice people. They had two sons and a daughter. Debbie was my sister's age and they got to be pretty good friends. I don't remember how long we lived there, but by the time I got to high school, we had already moved to the big town of Flemington, population around 2,000 back then, and still the home of the county seat.
As a coming of age young man, I recall Debbie walking around the farm wearing a small bikini and how she affected me then. This was a normal thing for a boy my age. It's called growing up at a time of raging hormones, and it's just a part of the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees. Most boys my age would have had the same thoughts running around in our heads, but that's got nothing to do with my point. My point is this: How Debbie dressed did nothing to invite trouble, and what happened to her should never be an excuse to commit murder.