The sun climbed into a crystalline sky, dabbing the mountains with streaks of gold. Leaves cast dancing shadows in a warm breeze, the scent of newly mown grass in the air.

Viola Jane Davison, 74 and the mother of six, was up early.

It was Saturday, Aug. 17, 1996, another beautiful Colorado day. As the moving truck rolled up, Viola sat impassively, unaware that the tide of life was going out, washing her out with it.

For Viola, the truck meant it was time to go. After 16 years and about 6,000 mornings in that house, it was time, at last, to go.

With Alzheimer's disease mercilessly tightening its grip on her brain, Viola no longer could manage her suburban ranch home. She couldn't cook for herself in a kitchen suddenly full of potential danger. She'd long since lost her ability to drive.

Viola, in fact, had lost many things in the last four years, beginning with her husband Walter. He had died of a heart attack right there on the couch after battling the same illness that now stalked her.

She had begun to lose her memory. Now, Viola was about to lose her freedom.

VIOLA WAS MY MOTHER. She'd had five kids by the time she was 37, and one day, Dad finally put the crib out on the curb for the trash men. But Mom learned the same day that she was pregnant again, and she brought the crib back in.

Dad took it out again.

"Sit down, Walter," she told him. "I have something to tell you." Six months later, I was born.