Dave and Alexis and I visited the Frye Art Museum, where we saw disturbing footage of modern Naziism in Hungary, awesome etchings of historical Egypt, and a beautifully spare and “voyeuristic” exhibit from the museum’s permanent collection. We went on to Photographic Center Northwest, where Ann Mitchell’s photographs of Val Verde were a spooky reminder of the Lindbergh kidnapping — something Mom mentioned to us frequently when we first moved to New Jersey (20 years after the tragedy). We knew that we should neither speak to nor accept candy from strangers, but the rationale for these proscriptions didn’t penetrate as deeply as a terrible sadness and sense of loss. Surely the Lindbergh’s toddler son, taken from his crib at night, had not engaged in conversation nor succumbed to sweet enticements. Today we learned that his grieving parents had retreated to this Southern California estate to escape round-the-clock media intrusions. The black-and-white photos show stately columns, manicured shrubbery, uninhabited rooms with tall beds. Even the ghosts seem to have gone elsewhere. It’s hard to imagine Val Verde as a comforting haven.